


Of pushing puppets together… and of puppets cutting their strings

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Character Death, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, King's Landing, Kingsguard, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 55
Words: 67,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About the story: It's a King's Landing, immediately pre-Blackwater AU. Warning for foul language, underage and especially for dub-con/non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK. Do you know what a tactical mistake is? To go on a trip and not to take the mini-netbook (and therefore no San-San projects) along. The result? By the first time we had to stop at a railway station to get another train I was suffering from withdrawals, dashed to the next shop and bought myself a paper notebook (of course with a little-bird-design). And since I couldn't go on with one of my various projects, because I didn't have them with me... guess what happened. I didn't have a dictionary or anything the like either, so I couldn't look up words, not having a modern mobile either. So please be lenient with me with regard to language :-). I've started to type in the 27 pages existing so far (it's not a big notebook, and I've got a big handwriting, but still it's some work and could amount to 8-9 regular pages in typing).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Ser Balon Swann came for her in the morning, his polished armour clanking. It sounded like a threat in her ears. She had bled for the first time, and surely, the king wanted to tell her now when he intended to make her his wife. Sansa's face was pale like the moon, but she schooled her features. Her only hope was that Stannis, who was approaching the capital with his fleet, would win against Joffrey and would put an end of some kind or another to the cruelties of the brat that was sitting the Iron Throne.

Sansa sighed inwardly. If Stannis won her own fate would be undecided at best, but she didn't truly mind. Anything would be better than being bedded by the golden-haired monster she had once believed to be in love with.

 

To her surprise, she was being led to a fine, ornate bedroom featuring a big four-poster bed. Thick, soft carpets muffled her steps – and even the heavy, metallic ones of the knight behind her.

However, it didn't matter much whose room this was – the negative main point being that Joffrey was in it. With him were icy Meryn Trant and a glowering Sandor Clegane.

It only needed one good look to see that Joffrey was in one of his cruel moods. The smirk on his worm-like lips was telling enough. His next words, which were so very polite on the surface, only helped to increase Sansa's nervousness.

“Lady Sansa! How wonderful to see you today! And it's such a pity you weren't present in the Throne Room some minutes ago. – But oh! I'm talking and talking. Please do take a seat first.”

Joffrey pointed at a chair in front of a desk.

Sansa squared her shoulders and sat down, preparing herself for a humiliation that was sure to come. To begin with, she had to look up at the king, who was looming up above her. She was only surprised that he had already been in the Throne Room so early since his enthusiasm with regard to ruling was mainly reduced to pestering his subjects and to showing off his own alleged power and glory.

Joffrey addressed her again and cackled: “Right. Fine. You see, my dear Lady Mother is still in a major state of shock, but this is her problem, not mine. I stepped in front of the Court and declared the end of our betrothal, yours and mine. I mean – nobody can truly expect me to marry a traitor's daughter, and even since your father's decapitation your behaviour has been insulting repeatedly. I won't let myself be disgraced by a northern slut like you.”

Sansa gaped and – the cruel words notwithstanding – fought against sudden happiness bubbling up inside her. At once, she understood why Joffrey had not made the news public in her presence: he didn't want the courtiers to see relief edged on her face.

Apart from that, Sansa had some dark premonitions that the king wasn't done with her yet.

Mere moments later, she was proven right.

 

“You've never been fit for royal status, Sansa; far from it. And now, you must be shown the rank you actually deserve. You're a wolf bitch, nothing more. – HOUND!”

Joffrey's sword shield stepped ahead. His scarred face was as void of any expression as hers, but somewhere under his scowling look Sansa detected confusion. Like herself, the Hound didn't have a clue of what would come next.

Sansa's pulse quickened. Should he behead her here, in this room? He was so very strong, and he knew how to kill effectively.

 

Joffrey continued with wicked nonchalance: “Hound, a bitch is a bitch. Whether wolf or dog – there isn't much of a difference anyway, is there? So I order you to fuck her properly to show her where her rank is: in a kennel at best. And if she doesn't behave – as a fur in front of a hearth fire.”

A fit of mean laughter followed.

Sansa flushed scarlet in shame and was paralysed.

Sandor looked thunderstruck, too, and Joffrey slapped his own thigh in malicious glee. Ser Meryn and Ser Balon showed no emotions whatsoever.

After a moment, Joffrey grew serious again, and he spat: “Right, Hound. I know it's disgusting to fuck someone like her, but an ugly dog like you can't be picky, I'd say, and it's an order anyway. You stay here with her and do your duty like a good dog. Baelish says that your manly powers have been rather inactive of late, and that you haven't been visiting the local brothels like you were wont to do. So I give you 24 hours to revive your virility; I expect you back for the upcoming battle. And now – have fun!”

With those words Joffrey turned on his heels, Ser Mery and Ser Balon in his wake, and left the room. The door was closed, and next, the crunching sound of a key that was being turned in its lock could be heard.

Silence.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for memories of canon-compliant gore.

Sansa was just sitting there and not moving, spellbound. Slowly, the king's words drizzled into her brain.

She was about to lose her maidenhood. Now. At the hands of the Hound. Without being married. Joffrey had sentenced her to becoming something like a whore!

Her shoulders started to tremble – there was no way of suppressing this reaction. But things didn't seem to be easy for Sandor Clegane either. His huge, mailed hands were clenching and unclenching, his jaws working. She saw his eyes flick into various directions, and a cold wave washed over her.

Spies! He suspected they were being controlled!

Sansa felt sick. If they didn't do as they had been ordered their heads would be on spikes the next day. Sansa remembered her father's and her septa's head, tarred and half rotten, and how Joffrey had led her to the battlements to show her those heads.

She panicked for a moment. Nononono, she didn't want to end like this! And her father wouldn't want it either. At least she hoped so. Only... the implications of all of this... How could she sleep with someone who was not her husband? Who was considered too low-born for her and not even a knight? Who was generally known to be an effective killer, a big, angry, scarred, solitary man fond of drinking Dornish red, who didn't care about others?

Joffrey wanted to degrade her, to shame her as much as possible and he knew well how to accomplish his plan.

But.

Sandor Clegane wasn't Joffrey Baratheon. At least, it wouldn't be the man who was responsible for her father's death who would take her maidenhood.

Meanwhile, the Hound walked over to a window and looked out, pretending to scan the area, like the good sworn shield he was. He didn't throw himself upon her the moment he was alone with her, like many other men would have done. Instead, he tried to uphold the impression of being an effective guard, who had to check the situation first.

Sansa was grateful for this. She needed some minutes to get a grip on herself and to order her thoughts. After a while, the mental circles and spirals in her head turned into a narrow path, which slowly started to grow wider.

Awkward as it was, Sansa realised that yes, she was afraid of what would happen next, but no, she wasn't so scared beyond her wits that she was close to making water on herself, or to losing her mind.

And then, her thoughts took the next step. It was as if a switch was turned.

It was clear now: she could try to resist and to put on a pathetic show, or she could keep herself upright and try to accept Sandor Clegane. If she didn't want to die – which she didn't – it all came down to this. Her dream of a romantic first bedding had been snuffed out a long time ago, but she could still avoid a really horrific experience, now that she wouldn't marry the king. In a downright humiliating situation Sansa wanted to keep as much of her dignity as possible – and a tantrum wouldn't help her here.

 

Like so often in the past, she squared her shoulders for the inevitable. She couldn't try to talk to the Hound in a friendly way, not if there were any secret listeners behind the chamber walls.

Instead, she did what Sandor Clegane had asked her to do so often: she walked over to his side, and when he turned his head into her direction she looked him straight in his slate eyes. It was like hurling herself off a cliff for her at first, but then she thought she could bear it to look at him. And she would bear the rest as well.

The burned part of the Hound's mouth was twitching. He had balled his fists again. Sansa timidly grasped them and sneaked her fingers under his clenched ones, all the while expecting him to shake off her touch. But he didn't do that, whatever it meant.

His gauntlets weren't held together or supported by any leather gloves. Perhaps he could hold his sword better this way, she mused and smiled fleetingly about the fact that she could have these weird thoughts in such an equally weird situation.

Sansa kept a hold on one of the Hound's hands (even if her own fingers nearly disappeared in his big paw) and walked over to the four-poster bed, leading him. Her steps were small, but steady. She felt a little detached from her own body – but better this way than a severed head.

When they had arrived Sansa turned around and faced the tall warrior again. The battle-hardened man, who could cut a foe in half with his sword easily looked insecure, and for once it was him who didn't meet her gaze.

On the one hand, it was difficult to see... well... his lack of eagerness. He was the experienced one, judging by what Sansa had just heard about him – so he should guide her down this road, shouldn't he?

On the other hand, it was a relief to know the Hound wasn't as interested in raping and torturing her as his despicable master.

Sansa bit her lip. Now that she had resolved to play her part she wanted to get it over with. This need triggered off some kind of steely determination within her.

When she remembered the day she had been stripped in court the crimson hue on her cheeks deepened, but she told herself that Sandor had already seen her bare torso (and covered her with his cloak, which accounted for something); anyway, it meant she could undress just as well – after all, he wouldn't see much new.

She moved her trembling fingers to the front laces of her dress and set to work. Sandor Clegane started to breathe faster, which in its turn caused her heartbeat to increase even more.

When only her thin shift was left she slipped between the cool sheets of the bed and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

 

For a moment, the scarred man stood there, rigid and wrestling with his own thoughts. Then, there was a dark, low growl, deep down Sandor Clegane's throat. It sounded angry and painful at the same time.

Next, he started to fumble on the fastenings of his armour. Putting off chainmail and the like was even more cumbersome than getting rid of a woman's dress with all its frills and laces. The metal squeaked and protested, then clattered loudly as it was being flung to the earth, and the sounds caused goosebumps to rise on Sansa's skin. Thud! Thud! Two big boots flew to where the armour had already landed. Gods, which size did the Hound's feet actually have!?

Finally, Sandor Clegane pulled his tunic over his head and was only wearing his smallclothes any more. Sansa's heart was hammering when she saw the Hound's broad chest that was coated in dark, curly hair and dotted with many scars that only became visible in a certain state of undress. As could be expected, he was heavily muscled. Veins stood out on the biceps of his strong arms. A spectacular as well as intimidating view!

Moreover, Sansa could also see the big bulge in his pants before he followed her into bed and closed the brocade curtains. After having had a look at the unmistakable proof of his lust Sansa knew that it meant there was nothing amiss with Sandor Clegane's “manly powers”.

 

The Hound sank deep into the mattress; it showed her just how very heavy he was. Sansa started not only to see him, but also to feel his presence: his bodily heat and his musky scent. Suddenly, her womanhood started to... to pulsate in a strange way, which she had never experienced before, and she felt embarrassed, but told herself that this was neither the time nor the place to act like a lady. Or like a septa.

Under the blanket, Sandor rolled around and knelt between her legs. He didn't need any force to push her knees apart: even innocent as Sansa was she had learned enough to know that she had to open her legs for the bedding. As she was already crimson in the face, like a cooked lobster, she couldn't blush any further, and thankfully, the drawn curtains didn't only shut out any possible watching eyes, but also at least a part of the bright late morning light. In the dimmed surroundings of the bed, Sandor's scars didn't look quite as harsh as usual, which made things at least a fraction easier.

His long, lank hair tickled her cleavage when he bent over her, and her skin started to tingle like mad. Sansa breathed in and out deeply. In and out. The tickling increased as his thin tresses trailed over her partly exposed upper body, and she noticed that she was not the only one who was panting lightly.

Next, the Hound pushed up the hem of her shift, and Sansa was surprised about how gentle he was. It reminded her of the time when he had dabbed at her bleeding lip with his handkerchief. Well, today she'd bleed again. Hopefully, he'd have another handkerchief for her.

For a moment, his huge, calloused hands rested on the flimsy shift, which barely covered her curves; he stayed his fingers on the sides above her tummy, right under her swelling breasts. Gods, her breasts started to feel so sensitive, even if he didn't touch her there, and against her will, Sansa pictured for a moment what it might feel like if his dark strands brushed her nipples... Sweet Mother, was she getting wanton? But how could she get wanton around the Hound!? It was impossible!

Under the blanket, Sandor Clegane started to fumble on the codpiece of his smallclothes. Moments later, Sansa felt something hot and fleshy, but also firm against the inside of her thigh. She was confused and needed a heartbeat to register this as... the Hound's member.

What puzzled her even more was that the sensation was in no way disgusting (though she was deeply embarrassed nevertheless). It was a touch she wasn't accustomed to, but still... it was a human touch, not one of a monster.

All of a sudden, Sansa would have liked to see what this body part looked like, but she didn't dare to lift the blanket.

Oi! What was that? It had felt like... a twitch. Could this... male body part move like that? Sansa felt ashamed that she knew so little, but she didn't let herself be deterred. Somehow, her curiosity started to win some ground. After she had allowed herself to get used a bit to this new, outrageous closeness, she looked into the Hound's eyes again. They were like wild, bottomless grey pools... and finally, she gave him the tiniest nod.


	4. Chapter 4

 

The big man – and he felt truly big in every respect, though Sansa had no point of reference – moved a little then, and the tip of his manhood slid between her nether lips. She gasped... and in spite of everything she had been told about morals she couldn't help herself: she was strangely fascinated. Curious. Her septa had told her not to touch herself down there, because it was supposed to be a sin; but now that the Hound was touching her there and everyone would expect her to be scared out of her skin – this foreign, but so far gentle touch only served to increase her interest. The pounding between her legs became more intense, turned into something like a kind of yearning, which she couldn't understand, but couldn't ignore either, and Sansa started to feel slightly slippery where the manhood was resting and nuzzling her most private parts.

The Hound's eyes widened; he seemed to notice this change as well, but he didn't object at all. Quite the contrary. He gasped, and Sansa thought her heart would hop out of her ribcage. Seconds later, she could feel his tip dip slightly into her opening.

Sansa tensed and braced herself for the pain... which didn't come. She breathed, relaxed again and didn't know what to think. Had she misunderstood something?

Sandor Clegane glided slightly into the opening again, and then, his member ghosted along her sensitive folds, spreading the strange moisture there. Sansa whimpered slightly, and looked into his unfathomable eyes, which had darkened and were dilated, even a bit hazy.

The corner of his mouth didn't stop twitching, but now, she found it endearing, rather than frightening.

Gods! She was getting dazed from his small, intimate movements, his scent and the warmth of his huge body everywhere around her; and she didn't know how it came to this, but, in fact, she soon tried to open her legs even wider. Somehow, here, with this man it was the natural thing to do. Under the blanket, her shift had glided even higher, and a calloused thumb was circling around her navel. If this was meant to be a torturing technique, it was the sweetest one she had ever heard of, and she wanted more.

Sandor rubbed himself against her once more, some kind of reflex caused Sansa to buck against him... and it was then that he thrust deeply into her, against her own upwards movement, and he sheathed himself completely.

Sansa squealed and gripped into the linen as if she wanted to wrench the bed apart. Tears popped out of her lachrymal glands. Sandor paused and Sansa gasped for air. After a moment, he pulled back a little and pushed into her again. She whimpered and fisted the linen once more.

When Sansa glanced up at the Hound he looked... strangely torn. His body reacted the way it was supposed to, but he didn't seem to like it one whit.

At least the pain slowly started to decrease and Sansa actually began to feel his member inside of her, not just the aches.

Holy Mother, she was so very stretched and full of his presence!

Back. And forth.

Back. And forth.

A steady rhythm – quite easy to follow once you got accustomed to it, Sansa thought. She also understood that the Hound tried to keep himself in check as best he could.

The pulsating feeling in her womanhood started to return, and the thrusts she had hated at first seemed to increase the sensation.

Sansa breathed deeply and leaned her cheek against the Hound's collarbone right above her. Under the blanket she laid her hands on his hips. After a short while they sneaked a little further down, not much, just a little, just enough so that she could feel the play of his pumping muscles. And what her curious fingers detected was a very well-trained behind indeed.

Oh my! Delicious feelings started to bloom down where they were joined.

Sandor reacted with a growl, but Sansa felt that it had nothing to do with him disliking her inquisitive touch. No, it was rather as if her still shy caress caused his thrusts to become more erratic.

There was no denying it: Sandor Clegane was losing control, slowly but surely. For Sansa it started to hurt a bit again, but at the same time, she was surprisingly delighted to see and to feel his arousal.

And then, the Hound threw back his head, his massive muscles stretched taught, he moaned loudly... and suddenly, Sansa thought him to be beautiful, however crazy the notion had to appear to anyone else.

Panting, the tall warrior fell on top of her, all physical tension gone with the strange feeling of something spurting from him into the depths of her body. His... seed.

Ever since her father had been taken captive she had learned enough about the bedding process in the Red Keep to be able to name what had just happened. The foremost problem was now, however, that Sandor Clegane was so very heavy that he knocked the air out of her lungs. Sansa tried to breathe as best she could, in spite of the massive burden that was weighing her down.

Slowly, the Hound recovered from what he had just experienced, noticed the situation she was in and rolled off of her hurriedly.

When he pulled out of her Sansa felt relief, but also the strangest kind of emptiness deep down in her core.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Sandor was lying next to her and looking up stonily at the bed's canopy now. To her surprise, he seemed to feel more miserable than she did herself. Suddenly, the wolf within her, which she had believed to be as dead as her beloved Lady, stirred. It was disgusting to think that likely someone had witnessed the bedding, but with a pang of defiance she realised that she wasn't and didn't want to feel ashamed of having lain with the Hound first.

She thought of the moment when she had been stripped and beaten at court – and he had called “enough!” and covered her with his cloak. He had never crushed a mailed fist into her, unlike all the other members if the King's Guard. And though he was rude he had given her good advice of how to survive in the king's presence. And survival was what everything was about. So all in all, Sandor Clegane surely wasn't a good man, no knight in shining armour, true, but in fact, he came still closest to deserving her maidenhood in all of King's Landing.

She propped herself up onto her elbows and looked at the tall warrior next to her again. His facial expression was a pit of darkness. Sansa didn't understand. This hadn't been the first time for him... though the mere thought of him doing this with a whore suddenly triggered of a sting in her heart, which confused her no end, because the Hound wasn't bound to her in any way.

If only she could be sure they were alone! Believing they could be overheard they hadn't exchanged a single word ever since the king had left. Sansa longed to talk about what they had been forced into and about what had just happened, but knowing how easily Sandor Clegane perceived her words as stupid chirping she kept quiet.

Instead, her hand slowly crept to his under the blanket one under the blanket, and her lightly hooked fingers stroked the hairy back of his big paw a little. In reaction to this tiny touch, Sandor's whole body flinched, even jumped. He flicked her the briefest glance, but didn't want to look at her, fumbled on his codpiece, seemingly tugging his... manhood into his smallclothes, opened the bed's curtains and stood up.

Sansa had another good look at his enormous, battle-hardened body with the many scars that told her of his rough way of life, and thought that he must have been so very controlled while bedding her, if his size and power had not hurt her more than a maid had to expect during her first time.

 

Sandor walked over to a screen. Behind it, he poured water into a bowl, judging by the sounds he made. There was a bit of splattering to be heard.

Oh. He had to be cleaning himself. From her... maiden's blood. Shyly, Sansa peeked under the blanket. And blushed. Well, she had certainly proven she had been untouched – and that the Hound had changed this.

SPLAT!

Sansa flinched. A wet piece of cloth had landed next to her.

“Clean yourself!” the Hound rasped. “What a bloody mess! I'll never fucking get it why so many men are interested in maidens.”

Sansa flushed a deep red. Sandor Clegane's language was as foul and hurtful as ever. For a moment, she felt horrible.

Then, however, she saw him flick more furtive looks at the walls and realised that his barking was more show than anything else. Besides – which other man in this horrible fortress would have been polite enough to hand her a piece of cloth for washing at all? Joffrey would have likely even prevented any cleaning, so as to humiliate her even more. Brrrr. She forbade herself to think of the king's intimacies.

“Thank you, se... Cle... gane,” she offered hesitantly, not knowing how to address the man in front of her.

As an answer she only got a snort and a muttered comment about “buggering her chirping courtesies”. Strangely enough, however, he didn't explode.

Gingerly, Sansa sat up, pushed the blanket away and started to remove the signs of the first bedding that could be found between her legs. She felt a bit raw there, but she could tell she wasn't badly hurt, in contrast to the state she'd have been in after having been forced into bed with another King's Guard member. No. NO. She shook her head in disgust at the mere thought.

No need to approach Maester Pycelle. Sansa shuddered for a moment when she thought of the old healer of the Red Keep. He had appeared to be a friendly kind of grandfather in the past, but she had started to see him in a different light, just like she did everyone else in the capital.

Meanwhile, Sandor had thrown himself onto the bed again and had resumed staring at the canopy. He was behaving so strangely – but then again, Sansa had never had the feeling to understand him in the first place.

When had she ever understood anything? They were right, all of them, she was just a stupid little bird who had been daft enough to betray her own father. Joffrey was right that she wasn't fit to be queen – only for different reasons than the ones he had given.

With a little sigh she got up, walked to the water bowl and left the dirtied piece of cloth there. After the things she had experienced only a few minutes before she found she wasn't overly upset about still being more than half naked; though admittedly the fact that the big warrior wasn't glaring at her, or even appeared to be interested in her state, did help a lot.

 

When she came back to bed she knelt onto the mattress, next to the Hound, and asked: “What now?”

Sandor Clegane flicked a brief glance at her body and looked away again. Sansa was dumbfounded: their roles had been reversed! Now, it was suddenly him who couldn't look at her while she had the impression her gaze was glued to his powerful body. Why had she only ever seen his scars and not how attractive he was? In his admittedly extremely rugged way.

“Let's see if we get can out of this bloody room,” he snarled and bellowed: “Anybody out there? Open the damned door! You can tell the king: mission accomplished!”

Sansa flushed red again.

No reaction from the other side of the door. The Hound uttered a curse that made her ears glow.

Sandor Clegane raged on: “Seven hells, what's this supposed to mean? They can't keep us in here without food and drink! I don't even know, if there's a chamber pot under the bed!”

Sansa dared to suggest: “ Perhaps they've forgotten us already, and they're all preparing the upcoming battle with Stannis?”

The Hound swore again, but didn't object, so at least she hadn't been chirping something stupid.

“I've had enough of this shit! Put on your clothes now.”

Sansa obeyed hurriedly and noticed Sandor Clegane doing the same though he only put on his tunic and his breeches, not his armour. As soon as they were both dressed Sandor stomped his huge, booted foot against the door.

Wood screamed and splintered, and then, they were free. The corridor outside was empty.

“Come!” the Hound growled and grabbed her arm. “I'll take you back to your room.”

 

Sansa nodded and hastened to keep up with his long strides. After some minutes, they arrived at her chamber, and Sansa realised she had never known where the tall warrior at her side was lodged.

She turned around to face him before he could walk away and put a hand on his arm.

“Will you come in for a moment?”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Before Joffrey had ended the betrothal with her this could have been interpreted as high treason, but now, things were different.

Sandor's face was stern, and he tensed.

A curt nod.

Sansa opened the door, they both entered, and she closed the door again.

Then, she looked up at the Hound and asked timidly: “What now?”

Sandor Clegane looked into the distance, combed with a hand through his long, lank hair uneasily and snorted: “Fuck, what do I know? Looks as if the hunting season for little birds has been opened by the king. As far as I am concerned... I could die tomorrow or the day after on the battlefield.”

He paused for a moment, then he started again: “I didn't want it to be like this, Little Bird.”

Sansa gave him a sad smile.

“I've come to learn that it's never the way we'd like things to be. After all, winter is coming. But I'm glad it was you. Not him.”

Another idea popped up in her mind, and she assured the tall warrior: “If I'm with child now I'll care for it as best I can.”

It was then that the Hound put his hand under her chin – though he didn't need to lift it any more, because Sansa was already looking at him... and he finally returned her gaze. His grey eyes were stormy; yet, for once there was no anger in them.

 

Suddenly, Sansa's heart started to pump like mad, and it occurred to her that they had not kissed during their bedding. At the same time, she was fairly sure it should have happened. Lovers were supposed to kiss, weren't they?

Moreover, she was getting the impression she wanted to know how Sandor Clegane tasted.

“Better late than never,” she told herself with all the innocence and romantic attitudes and lack of thought about the consequences that could only be ascribed to her age and state of development. On impulse, she let her hand sneak around Sandor Clegane's muscled neck, into his dark hair; next, she rose on her toes, and the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the expression of utter confusion on his face.

When her lips bumped softly against his Sansa thought a rainbow was exploding and a thousand multicoloured stars were falling down on her. Against all assumptions, nothing had ever been so delicious in all her life! The infamous Hound's mouth was surprisingly soft, apart from the burned corner, and felt as if it was made for her.

A heartbeat later, Sansa realised the Hound started to tremble, though what feeling was causing this she had no idea of. Probably, he didn't know how to react, or he was getting angry with her, the stupid little bird, like so often. Gods, no, he couldn't get angry with her, NO! Sansa feared Sandor Clegane might push her away any moment, and then, he'd start to bark and to curse and to yell at her, and that was an absolute impossibility – she simply couldn't let that happen, so she kissed him even more, urgently, wildly, in an utterly unladylike way... but oh, she didn't care. She couldn't, wouldn't let him go.

The Hound was not the knight in shining armour she had dreamed of, and nothing had ever mattered less. She took in his warmth, his scent, like she had done in bed, but now, there was also this wonderful taste, and it was not the Hound yelling at her, but her own body was yelling for more, so she clung to him with a fierceness she had not thought herself capable of.

At length, something between a dark moan and a whine escaped Sandor's lips.

“Oh, please, don't stop this, please!” Sansa begged inwardly in a way that her younger, more childish self would have have found improper and disgusting, but now, she was beyond these concerns.

And then, strong arms embraced her and caused her nearly to sob from sheer relief. Those arms let the armour the Hound had still held in one hand fall to the floor with a loud clank. They carried her to her bed. Flipped Sansa on the back.

The massive Hound's body bent over her. And finally, finally (oh sweet Mother!), he kissed her back so wildly that it was an epitome of a hunger and a despair that must have been bottled up inside of him for years and years.

Sansa barely knew how to breathe any more, even if he wasn't lying directly on top of her this time; still, she met his lips and teeth and tongue instinctively with a passion she had not known she could muster.

Ever since the execution of her father she had believed her heart to be dead as well; yet, she had to find out now she was very much alive.

In the end, Sandor pulled back, his eyes as big as saucers, panting heavily, and he moaned: “Seven bleeding hells, Sansa, what are you doing to me!?”

Sansa! He had called her by her first name! No “Little Bird” this time!

The brightest smile started to bloom on her slightly swollen, dark red lips, and she didn't know where either the tone or the frankness came from, but she retorted as tenderly as playfully: “Why, I'm kissing my lover!”

Sandor moaned again , pressed his good cheek against her neck and started to nuzzle her there with his big, hooked nose, all the while murmuring dazedly: “Fuck, you're killing me, you know that, don't you, Little Bird, you're killing me, you don't need any swords and daggers, no you don't, but oh...”

And Sansa squealed and giggled in absolute joy. She had not felt so carefree for ages!

The most remarkable thing, however, was that when she looked down at the face against her neck she spotted a light in the Hound's eyes, which had never been there before. It took her a moment until she understood that this was what Sandor Clegane looked like when he was happy.

Sansa thought that she had never seen a more breathtaking man.

 

Yet, after some moments he turned serious again; his jaws set, and a glint of determination stole into his look.

“Sansa.”

“Yes?”

“I don't know how long exactly it'll take, or whether I'll be successful... but there's something I have to do. Now. At once.”

Sansa was somewhat taken aback, but she didn't question his motivation.

Not right after THESE kisses.

“I see...,” she murmured.

Sandor got up again and asked her to help him put on his armour.

Some minutes later, he truly looked like the ferocious Hound again, a brute who wasn't capable of any tender feelings. But Sansa knew better.

“What do you want to do, Sandor?”

He had used her given name, so she told herself she could use his as well. As she did so she found out it tasted sweet on her tongue.

The Hound had registered her change of addressing him, too, and gave her another kiss.

Then, he answered with a steely edge in his raspy voice: “I'll keep you safe.”

A final peck on her lips, and he was out the door. Sansa pressed a hand on her fluttering heart, fearing what might come next, but also trying to have faith in the tall, scarred warrior. After all, Sandor Clegane was a survivor.


	7. Chapter 7

 * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

King's hash. He'd hack this little bugger to tiny pieces. He'd turn him into king's hash for what Joffrey had done to Sansa. And fuck the Seven, if anyone came between him and the little shitstain!

 

Sandor was stomping down the corridor like a bull who had seen red, but then he stopped, panting.

“Easy now, easy,” he admonished himself, leaning the front of his head against a cool marble pillar.

He was still trying to process the triple shock he had experienced: first the king's order to rape and to shame and to basically destroy the Little Bird, then, when he had accepted to die for treason rather than to carry out this disgusting task, Sansa had suddenly shown him she preferred to live and had basically accepted him in bed, and finally, her... signs of affection.

Sandor simply didn't get it. He had hurt her. He knew he had. Had seen it. He'd never forget her strained shrieks, her cramping muscles, her maiden's blood. He had wished his cock to shrivel up for causing her pain, only he had not known how to treat a maiden, even less so with his size and demeanour. He had only ever known quick tumbles with whores, and he had even abstained from those when he had become a member of the King's Guard. Though, come to think of it, his abstinence from female flesh had had little to do with the celibacy expected of his position...

Anyway, he had been rude with Sansa again – and yet, she had opened up for him. There had been moments when Sandor had not been able to ignore the impression that she was... enjoying his touch. He wouldn't have believed the sincerity of those reactions from any other woman, but fuck, Sansa was the worst liar in the Seven Kingdoms.

And seven bleeding hells, her strength and her sudden tenderness, her passionate kisses, her... her divine body... how she had felt and smelled and tasted, and how incredibly sweet she had been on the inside and how she had even been a little slick from her first pangs of lust... She had even looked him in the eyes, something she had never done before willingly. A man could lose his soul in the gentle shine of her Tully blue eyes. He knew for sure, because he had just experienced it himself. Sandor was still, absolutely, totally unhinged.

How was this possible? How??

 

And the imminent problem was: what could he do now to actually keep Sansa safe? He had thought of killing the king, but that wasn't useful at all. It would only serve to get himself executed – and Sansa had seen enough severed heads already; he wouldn't be so feather-brained as to add to that trauma.

But Sansa was some sort of fallen woman now, after he had lain with her. If he died, everyone would feel free to use her without thinking twice. He could already see lewd men put their dirty paws on the white, delicate skin of hers. Damned knights, who held themselves in such high esteem. Or someone like Baelish, who'd lick his fingers to get a hold on her and to place her into one of his brothels.

And what if Sansa was really pregnant now? If she was carrying his... his pup?

Sandor combed with his hand through his hair. Bugger him, he'd gotten them into the worst shit ever. He wasn't a good match for her, and even worse a man. Since the winning of the tournament he was well-off, but he had no lands or titles to offer. Sansa deserved more, SO much more! Still, there was only one thing he could do. He had to make her his wife, if he wanted to be able to keep her safe at least a little bit. He had to scare off the bloody rats from her.

That again required two things: that he stayed alive long enough to marry her... and the king's agreement.

Seven thrice-damned hells of shit!

Sandor crashed his fist into a wall, and a servant, who had just been passing him, let a plate with food fall in shock. Sandor looked at the self-pissing dolt of a man, snarled, and the little bugger ran away, forgetting his task, or perhaps rather risking a punishment than getting in the Hound's way again. Well, that at least spoke of some basic intelligence.

Fuck, Sandor needed some Dornish red! But no, that was a bad idea, he had to think clearly now. At least, he had not overindulged into wine the previous evening, so he was able to concentrate.

He breathed in and out slowly, as he would do a while after a battle, until he wasn't a berserk any more. Sandor knew he had never been into scheming, but now, he'd have to use all his intelligence, if he wanted to keep both his balls and his head. Tactical evaluations set in. Sandor wasn't bad when it came to military strategies, and he told himself that this dilemma wasn't so very different from a fight on a battlefield.

The rules were the same: you had to know the surroundings, you had to know your enemy, you had to have a goal, and you had to be daring, strong of mind, impressive, you needed good reactions and had to be flexible. Having everything aspect taken into account, Sandor was convinced he'd be able to handle Joffrey, if only the circumstances were right.

He didn't like what he had cooked up, but then again, rations on military campaigns were never tasty...

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this will be more like a satire now... well... I was in a strange mood tonight. ;-)

 

In the royal wing, Sandor crossed Ser Osmund Kettleblack's way. This lousy tick of a man had risen high of late and had become a member of the King's Guard as well as Cersei's man of confidence (and probably even more, with the Lannister cunt you never knew). Anyway, Ser Osmund certainly didn't need the king's order to abstain from celibacy, unlike Sandor.

The man smirked in his direction when he saw him and jested: “Ah, Hound, already back from your... special task? Is there anything worthwhile to find between the legs of the Stark girl?”

Instantaneously, blood and rage started to pump wildly through Sandor's large body, and he wanted to crush the grinning man's skull with his bare hands. The problem was that such a reaction wasn't helpful, as he knew well.

So he just snarled: “You can go bugger yourself with a hit poker! Since when do I have to report back to you, Kettleblack!? My tasks are none of your bloody business, understood? And now – where's the king?”

Ser Osmund was taken a little aback by the aggression an retorted: “Well, well, seems as if even a fuck didn't allow you to let off enough steam to become somewhat affable. You should better mind your manners when talking to the king. He's in his changing room.”

Sandor barked back: “And you should mind your head, if you want to keep it! Changing room? Why in his changing room, for fuck's sake?”

Ser Osmund shrugged and explained: “Got a raven with the message that Lord Lannister will be here tonight or tomorrow, back from Harrenhal obviously, and the king is pondering which robe he'll wear to welcome his grandfather.”

Sandor's eyes bulged.

Seven. Bloody. Hells.

If Lord Tywin was on his way, he himself really had to speed up, if he wanted to succeed.

And there was something else that raised his suspicion.

“Kettleblack, shouldn't the king better be preparing a battle against Stannis, rather than his outfit?”

The knight smiled back in a meaningful way: “Ah, well, we all know what the king is like, don't we?”

Sandor cursed. What an incompetent brat this Joffrey was!

Without another word to Ser Osmund, the Hound pounded on with long strides.

 

Luckily, he was admitted to the king's quarters at once, and he was even luckier when he found Joffrey alone in his changing room, apart from an insignificant (though likely spying) servant. No Cersei was there, or any other political bigwig, and that was most important.

The king greeted him with a smirk.

“Ah, Hound! Done with Sansa Stark?”

Aaaah, how wonderful it would sound to hear the little shit's backbone snap.

Sandor nearly vomited onto his boots when he answered icily: “Yes, Your Grace. Fucked her like a bitch in heat, I did.”

Joffrey cackled madly and asked: “Did she scream?”

Sandor breathed in. And out.

The dogs in the kennel would certainly like the boy's brain, even if there wouldn't be much to feast on. Still, as a little treat, directly spooned up from...

“A little, Your Grace. Didn't give her much of a chance for anything though.”

The king burst into a real fit of laughter.

“Great, Hound, Great! You should get a reward for dealing with her so efficiently.”

Sandor pricked up his ears (well, at least the one that wasn't burned) and answered in a clipped way: “I wonder if the northern bitch's short-term humiliation shouldn't be made a permanent one.”

Joffrey stopped short, slightly puzzled, but intrigued, and asked: “What do you mean, Hound?”

Sandor shrugged, as if it didn't mean much: “She could be with child now. As you said very correctly, Your Grace – I'm efficient. Probably should make her my bitch for true in the sept then.”

Joffrey's eyes widened... and then, he exploded with more laughter.

“My, oh my, Hound, now that's too good to be true! You'd want to have the Stark wench? And her whelp? Gods, how very funny! Didn't take you for a family man!”

Sandor growled.

Imagined the king's hash, the colour, the texture, how the dogs in the kennels would be yelping and whining and begging...

Then, he answered: “I'd want to make sure that the whelp would be MINE. A Clegane. Not a Stark. And it can't be too difficult to show a pup how to piss on a tree.”

Joffrey clapped his hands in malicious glee and was nearly rolling on the floor now. But then, he got more serious and demurred: “Hilarious as the idea is – Sansa Stark will hold a claim to the north, once her traitorous brother has been slain. That's a tiny little bit above your rank, Hound. I didn't know you for a family man, but neither for such an ambitious one.”

Sandor snorted in contempt and rasped: “If I wanted a fief I'd aim for something nicer, greener, richer. Don't you remember the bleakness of the north, Your Grace? Bah, on my behalf you can bestow it on someone else. After all, you're the king, it's your decision.”

Joffrey looked flattered, and Sandor was feeling really sick now, but went on nevertheless: “Apart from that – who should have the little slut then, Your Grace? If you slay false King Robb you'd still have to rule the north somehow, so you'd need someone who's capable to fight the Northerners, and to keep them down. You know, I could do it, Your Grace, even if I'd rather prefer the southron regions to fight in. I'm the Hound, I can kill them all, those bloody northerners. – But perhaps it's right and that topic should be left to your grandfather. I guess when he's here he'll decide things as your Hand and will do so until you've come of age.”

Sandor stopped and hoped he hadn't overdone it.

Sure enough, Joffrey bristled and pouted and declared haughtily: “Pah! I am the king! I am the one who decides! I tell you – my grandfather will have to learn that! Clegane: you go and drag the Stark bitch to the sept at once. Make sure she's ruled with a rod of iron – as well as with your own rod, if you get my meaning. And see to it that she won't be the only northerner who'll be subdued in this way, once I've slaughtered her brother, the dirty Wolf! And now I want to see which doublet will suit me better when I meet my grandfather. I've got to show him that I am the one who is in power.”

Sandor bowed, heart suddenly beating madly, and answered: “As Your Grace commands.”

Joffrey waved, and he was dismissed for the moment.

So Sandor bowed again, turned and left. Luckily, the servant still had to stay with the king. The Hound hastened back to Sansa's room. Everything depended now on whether they'd be faster with the wedding than the enemies who'd want to stop them.

On his way, Sandor came across the sellsword the Imp had hired.

“Bronn,” he barked at the man, “you want to earn some easy money? Like five gold dragons?”

“Why not? What do you want?”

“You've just to go to the sept and stay there for two hours, or perhaps less, if I tell you otherwise.”

“Wanna fuck a harlot on the altar? The Mockingbird is offering interesting arrangements of late, I've heard.”

Sandor harrumphed.

“Just wait there, try to look as decent as a man like you can, and find out for yourself, all right?”

Not wanting to lose too much time, Sandor hurried on. Ok, so he had the first witness for the wedding. On his way, he ran into a young, haggard and really dumb knight, Ser Ryle, a sod whom he usually beat to a pulp in the training yard.

“Ryle, if you want to survive the next exercises with me you better go to the sept and stay there for the next two hours! And better don't shit yourself in fear, I won't accept any stink on your part!”

The rather fearsome man paled, and Sandor was under the impression that this was probably not the normal way to recruit witnesses for a wedding. Bugger that, this was a special situation and needed a special handling.

Three minutes later, he was at the Little Bird's door and wrenched it open, in his frenzy he even forgot to knock. Sansa was there and had obviously been praying. Well, she could go on doing so in a moment's time in the sept. Her blue eyes were huge, and there were big question marks in them.

“No time for a discussion, Sansa. Come! The king has just given order that we must marry at once.”

“Marry!?” Sansa gasped, totally confused.

“Don't start repeating and chirping again, Sansa! No time for changing into another dress. Off we go!”

Sandor took her by the arm, and the Little Bird was so gobsmacked that she simply followed him. Hopefully, there would be no further obstacles for them, Sandor said to himself as he led her to their wedding ceremony.


	9. Chapter 9

 

When they arrived at the sept, Ser Ryle and the Imp's sellsword were there. He waved them closer, next got hold of a short, skinny, balding minor septon, who was just in the process of cleaning the candle boards of the Crone.

“You're needed, man! There is a direct order of the king to carry out,” Sandor rasped.

The septon was confused, but obviously, he belonged to those people who were easy to impress. Once he had grasped the duty he was expected to perform, he called the few people, who had been praying at the different altars, together as further witnesses.

“Wouldn't have needed to drag this Bronn and the knight here, but who could have known beforehand?” Sandor thought to himself a little sourly, but then, there was no more time for such thoughts.

The little crowd was mightily excited about the unexpected wedding ceremony, and Sandor started to feel queasy. He wasn't meant to become a husband, but that point was hardly up for discussion any more.

The septon started the process, Sansa was still staring as if she didn't know what to think, and when the time came she all but stammered her vows. Sandor didn't feel much better. He hated vows! But for Sansa's sake, he had to make an exception. Then, he put his King's Guard cloak around her shoulders, like he had already done once in the Throne Room, and finally, he gave the Little Bird a little peck on her lips to seal the arrangement.

The septon had just declared them wife and husband when there was a loud voice from behind: “What, in the name of the Seven, is this?”

The royal septon, the one who ran the sept of the Red Keep, materialised out of nowhere. He was a spindly man with a long, grey beard, and he was just one level under the High Sparrow.

“This is a wedding ceremony. Or rather was. I thought you'd recognise the procedure,” Sandor barked.

“Yes, but...”

“It happened on King Joffrey's direct orders, and it is over now,” the Hound cut in. “So spare yourself some breath and stop huffing.”

The royal septon was scandalised, and one could see in his eyes that the poor minor septon would have to scrub many flagstones on his knees in the future.

Sandor didn't care, though. The witnesses were already scattering, as the were clearly sensing upcoming trouble. Just Bronn was still there, and he received his five gold dragons without further comment.

Afterwards, Sandor grabbed the still totally confused Little Bird and murmured into her ear: “Now off to the Godswood! You can have some vows for the Old Gods there as well, if you want to. And THEY won't expect us to go there. They'll look into our chambers first. When they detect us outside later, we can claim we have consummated the marriage in the open. They can't prove otherwise anyway then since it is known you're no maid any more.”

Sansa blushed fiercely and didn't utter so much as a chirp, but seven hells, what else could he say? It was the truth after all.

In no time, they hurried down the corridors again, further and further, and outside, and at length, they entered the Godswood. The two found a secluded spot behind a tall hedge and lay down.

“Sandor! Sandor, please tell me, what does all of this mean?” Sansa managed to ask now, and the Hound rejoiced in her calling him by his given name.

“Oh, I can tell you. I went to King Joffrey and talked him into ordering our instant wedding. See, I'm no pretty musician, and my song could turn sweet mead sour, but this one time, I played him like fiddle. The problem is that his blasted Lady Mother and the Imp and probably also Lord Varys and half the court won't like it that a pawn like you has been snatched out of their hands – even less so by a lowly dog like me. And Littlefucker and Lord Tywin will be less amused still. Fuck, Lord Lannister doesn't know what amusement is to begin with, but you understand my meaning. That was why we had to be so fast. The marriage had to be secured. I don't have much to offer, and it shouldn't be me, I know this, but I won't let anyone call you the Hound's bedwarmer. If nothing else, I want you at least to be respectable and to be a wife.”

Sansa's pupils were extremely dilated, and she seemed to have a thousand questions, but barely managed to talk.

“But what will happen now? Won't they punish you?”

“I acted on the king's explicit order, which means that they can't dub me a traitor. What still needs to be done is to remove me from my position in the King's Guard. Being married now, it's the obvious thing to do. Moreover, they might want to strip you of your claim to Winterfell and decide that someone else becomes Warden of the North, in case that they manage to defeat your brother.”

Sansa cringed and asked: “But they'll let you stay alive?”

“Perhaps. I don't know, honestly. They might want to make me fodder for the arrows in the upcoming battle – but as a widow you'd still be better off than as a... whore of the court... which you'd have become, if I had not married you.”

Sansa pressed a hand onto her mouth and whined. Tears pooled in her eyes, and Sandor felt like shit once more.

“Little Bird,” he tried to speak gentler, “I'm not a man of honeyed words. But. A Hound will die for you, never lie to you. And it will look you straight in the face.”

Sansa nodded then, despite her watery eyes, and he stroked her brow.

After a moment, when she had just recomposed herself, Sandor heard some telltale distant noises, which were coming closer at great speed. People searching for them.

“Sansa, there are men coming into our direction, I must lift your skirts and open your and my smallclothes and assume an explicit position. I'll not take you again, don't fear anything, but it must look a if I was doing so.”

The Little Bird paled, which Sandor could understand well, and he cursed himself a blasted bugger, but he was convinced they had to uphold appearance. Sansa seemed to see the sense in his words, too, for she started to pull up her skirts and to open her clothes... and also her pretty legs for him. The Hound tugged on the laces of his breeches, freed himself and knelt between Sansa's thighs.

“Fuck, I hope that one day you'll have some nicer experiences, Sansa. This is not the way it should be. You deserve something better,” he rasped into her ear.

“Hush!” was Sansa's only reaction, and she looked into his eyes again, so he might drown in her gaze.

Their sexes were touching once more, and Sansa gasped. Shit, he was getting hard again! The Little Bird's plumage was downy there, tickling him, and his body reacted hungrily. But he wasn't the only one in need, as it turned out. A deep flush crept down Sansa's cheeks and neck... when she started to rub herself against him! Sandor stifled a moan. Seven. Hells!

He grabbed her arms, pinned them over her head and thrust against her pelvis. Sansa uttered a whine. It was good that he was wearing his cloak again around his shoulders – it covered the little detail that his cock wasn't really inside of her.

Behind them, different steps were approaching them fast, so he decided to play his role as the fearsome Hound once again and growled angrily: “See what it is to be mine? SEE!?”

“SHITSHITSHIT! This is not true! Hound!” Sandor heard an absolutely outraged voice behind him and turned around.

The Imp was standing there, glaring at them in shock and disgust, and behind him were Ser Oswald Kettleblack... and a smirking Bronn.

Sansa squealed, and she didn't have to act her embarrassment. Sandor got off her, visibly tugged himself back in while the Little Bird was shoving down her skirts hastily, and got up, towering menacingly above the halfman.

Lord Tyrion wasn't impressed, though, and he gritted out: “You'll come along with me, Hound, and answer to Lord Tywin. He's nearing the Red Keep as I'm speaking. THIS,” the Imp made an all-encompassing gesture, “is the most revolting aberration, and I've seen many aberrations, being one myself.”

“I'm acting in line with the king's wishes”, Sandor answered coldly. “And what are you actually hollering about, halfman? Shouldn't you been preparing the king's battle against Stannis?”

Lord Tyrion stared at him as if he were a heap of dung.

“There will be no battle against Stannis. The late king's brother is dead and will pose no further threat. If I may say so: you're not the only one who is able to dispose of an enemy efficiently.”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Lord Tywin was not amused. Not. At. All.

But neither was Sandor, for that matter.

Lord Tywin was looking out of the window of his solar, rigid, hands clasped on his back, jaws pressed together like a vise-grip wrench.

“So the second son of a minor house of Westeros thinks he can rise above his rank by marrying Sansa Stark?”

The Wall had to be the seventh hell in comparison to the iciness in the Lion's voice.

Sandor spoke up and just offered a “no”.

Lord Tywin turned around then. A muscle was twitching on his cheek.

“No?”

Sandor just repeated his clipped answer. Lord Lannister wasn't a man who appreciated wormy excuses.

“I don't think I can either believe or follow or understand you, Clegane. Explain yourself!”

Sandor cleared his throat and rasped: “My lord, the king ordered me to... bed Lady Sansa. Before the marriage. I obeyed, like I always do. It turned her into a loose woman, in the eyes of society. It was her rank that was diminished in the first place, not mine being heightened. I don't care for titles or claims to any position. As the king's sworn shield I'm already in a better position than I could ever hope for. I've already told the king that he can proceed with Sansa's claim for Winterfell as he pleases. I'm not interested in it. If I'm ordered to conquer the fortress I'll do so without flinching, without asking second questions. If I'm ordered to subdue the northern castle inhabitants I'll do so. No more, no less. I'm not interested in the north any further than I can piss.”

“I can't believe you, Clegane. It doesn't explain at all why you felt the need to talk my grandson into allowing Lady Sansa and you to marry, nay, to talk him into giving the respective order even, as I've been informed.”

“My lord, I thought that it was possible that she might be with child. I didn't want it to be a bastard-born child.”

“PAH! That's all flimsy pretence! You might already have a bunch of bastards with the whores you've had, but you didn't marry any of those harlots, and you know why? Because they're below your rank and can't offer you anything, apart from an illness that could cause your member to rot! Besides: it's not even clear yet whether Lady Sansa is pregnant or not.”

Lord Tywin was glaring daggers at him.

“I won't say it's impossible to have any bastards, my lord, but I don't know of any, or I would have taken care of them. I may be a killer like my brother, but in THIS respect I'm different.”

The Lion arched his golden eyebrow critically and retorted sardonically: “The infamous Hound has got a conscience!? Now, that's really some news to me. Ha, and next, you'll tell me that you love the Stark girl and that you were such a fool that you did all of this without caring for the consequences.”

Sandor felt as if his liege lord's words were like the strokes of a whip that drove him back against a wall until he could retreat no further. His mouth started to twitch. Now, it was him, who was looking in the direction of the window, even if he couldn't move to stand in front of it. He growled, deep in his throat.

Suddenly, he noticed Lord Tywin's feline, green eyes go wide in shocked understanding. In contrast to his inbred grandson, the Old Lion Lion wasn't an oaf. The man had detected what was going on with the Hound, even more than he himself had wanted to admit. Fuck!

“Phew,” Lord Tywin uttered. “All right. I think I need to sit and to have a glass of strongwine now. Well, well, well. Who would have ever thought THAT?”

Lord Tywin walked over to his desk, the desk of the Hand, and poured himself a drink. When he had taken a sip and put down his glass, he looked at Sandor again, narrowed his eyes and purred thoughtfully, like a cat that was about to pounce: “How very interesting. How very, very interesting.”

The Hound would have preferred to get himself flogged publicly, rather than to let the Lion know Sandor cared for Sansa, but this was a choice he didn't have.

Lord Tywin scratched his bushy sideburns.

Then: “As your overlord and Hand of the king, I'll strip you of your position in the king's guard. You may expect his Majesty to tell you that you won't be his sworn shield any more soon. A loving man is a danger for a king. If and how we'll proceed with you in the future – who knows? The two of you may still turn into an asset. Or a burden. We'll have to wait and see. – – On a different note: as a man who was married once I do see where your motivation is coming from. But don't think I won't crush you, if you give me the faintest indication for treason.”

Sandor cleared his throat and answered: “I have understood you well. Speaking of treason – how is it possible that Stannis is dead?”

Lord Tywin tapped a lean finger on his desk and retorted: “Oh, that. Well, if you receive a powerful priest of the Red God on your ship to bless the upcoming battle you should make sure first that he's really a worshipper of R'hllor, not a disguised assassin, and that his magic fire – in the form of wildfire, by the way – isn't getting directed at you. Hmmmm... wildfire. An adequate way of executing you, Clegane, should it come to that, wouldn't you say?”

Sandor stiffened and felt sick.

“I told you, there's no reason to question my loyalties.”

“I've got ears and understood you the first time you said it. And I'm trusting you – how did you put it so “elegantly”? – as far as I can piss. Now, be gone and go back to your bride.”

“Lord Hand.”

Sandor bowed, turned on his heels and stalked off, all the while thinking that the Stranger was breathing down his neck.


	11. Chapter 11

 

When Sandor arrived back at Sansa's room she was pacing up and down and ran towards him when he entered, looking at him with her big, pretty blue eyes. Damn. He felt so bloody awkward!

“What is it? How did it go?”

She sounded a bit breathless.

“I'm still a free man – as free as a married man can be, that is – and my head is still on my shoulders. The same is true for you. Which means it could have been worse, Little Bird, couldn't it?” Sandor answered and shrugged.

Sansa smiled then, advanced and took one of his hands while saying: “That's good news indeed!”

Sandor winced a little, because he wasn't accustomed to frequent body contact, even less, if it didn't have anything to do with a fight, be it in the training yard, or in a tavern brawl. The Little Bird, however, stopped smiling, looked worried at once and ended the touch the same moment, muttering: “Well, I guess it wasn't a nice meeting nevertheless.”

“That's the understatement of the decade.”

“What did Lord Lannister say then?”

Sandor sighed.

“As you can imagine, he was pretty pissed off that someone of my low social rank managed to get a legal hold on you by marriage. It's what most people will react like at court. They'll not only call me “Hound” any more, but also an upstart. Only Lord Tywin would also have liked to use you freely for his politicking. He'd have wanted another match for you to get a claim on the north. I wonder which Lannister he'd have pressed onto you, if he had had the choice.”

Suddenly, an icy thought cut through his brain. Sandor froze, and the same instant, he felt very, very cold.

“What is it?” Sansa asked.

Damn. His scorched face had twitched in disgust.

“Nothing, Little Bird.”

Then, it happened: Sansa embraced him, and he flinched in surprise.

Her voice was muffled against his chest: “I'm your wife now, and I'm supposed to share your sorrows. Even more so, if they concern myself. Please: tell me what you consider “nothing” while looking like a ghost.”

The Hound swore under his breath.

“The pretty Little Bird is damned curious.”

His statement was met with silence. His wife was still waiting for an answer and obviously wasn't deterred by one of his snarls any longer. Shit!

After another moment, he had sorted his musings and started: “I've been thinking, Sansa. The Lion of Lannister would have wanted to have as tight a grip on you as possible, if you were still free. He's not a trusting man and wouldn't have given you to a lesser family member. I'm pretty convinced of that. But who would be left then? As a member of the King's Guard Jaime is out of the question... though Lord Tywin might have tried to make the king remove Jaime from his position, but it's not likely. The remaining options would have only been... the Imp. Or Lord Tywin himself.”

Sansa stiffened.

“Gods!” she breathed, eyes widening in disgust at the mere thought.

Suddenly, Sandor felt a weird kind of amusement that she was so shocked about that concept while her recent bedding and their hasty marriage were very real and should have shocked her far more by all laws of nature – only they hadn't.

“Then you're still in danger, Sandor, aren't you?”

“You are becoming a clever Little Bird. Yes, I may still wake up one morning and find myself dead, with a bloodied dagger in my chest. Yet, as long as we're no threat to Tywin's warfare and his politics we can hope to live. Or rather I can hope to stay alive, since they wouldn't want to kill you anyway as long as you've got a claim on Winterfell. After all, they could still remarry a widow.”

 

Sansa was very pale then and buried her face against his massive torso again. Seven hells, why was she still so eager to keep touching him? Yet, he'd be a bloody fool to turn her away. She felt too good to be true. Hesitantly, Sandor stroked her fiery hair. Was it all right to touch her back?

Judging by her reaction, or rather the lack of it, his clumsy caress didn't seem to upset her.

Instead, there was only her muffled voice again: “So... erm... what do we do now?”

 

Sansa drew back, rubbed her elbow; seemingly, she felt somewhat uneasy, and Sandor could only notice how the romantic atmosphere between them was dissipating again. Was she already sorry that she had married him, given that there were still so many problems ahead?

The Hound snorted, then answered: “Easy to say. You'll have to pack your things and move into my room, at least for a few days. Lord Lannister has told me I'll lose my position as a sworn shield soon, so I'll have to look for a new job. And I've already got something in mind. So when we've put all your stuff into my chamber I'll leave and contact a few people in King's Landing.”

Sansa looked sad now; so she was disappointed she had to move into his lesser room. Anger was blooming in the Hound's stomach.

Without further ado, he grabbed the next wooden chest, opened it and growled: “Throw your things in here. Or do you need another one?”

The Little Bird shook her head and chirped: “No. That will be fine.”

Suddenly, Sandor thought of the queen and of other highborn ladies, and he realised that they would all need more than two chests, actually. A handful of gowns and smallclothes, barely the tiniest piece of jewellery, a doll, a hairbrush, a second pair of shoes, two nightshifts... and that was it. Sandor looked at his young wife again and realised how tight all of her dresses were. She had grown, not just being just a pretty girl any more.

It annoyed him no end that she had not been cared for when it came to fitting clothes, but then again – what could you expect from people who had beheaded your father and who were beating you to a pulp regularly? Only Sansa deserved something better!

“When I'm in town I'll find you a seamstress, too. Would a Little Bird accept some new clothes... as kind of a wedding present?” Sandor rumbled.

Sansa spun around, surprised, then started to smile once more, and Sandor's heartbeat increased when he realised that it had been him who had elicited such a reaction. Seven hells, he had never known how to make a woman smile!

“Oh, how very considerate and generous of you! Thank you so much!”  
“Shush, when will the Little Bird finally learn that I don't like polite chirping? But I'll take it as a 'yes'.”

Sansa looked at her feet then, embarrassed.

“I'm so sorry! Really, I am. And... you see... I don't have any wedding present for you!”

Sandor screwed his eyes and grunted: “Forget it. I've got YOU. And forget all those apologies as well. It's a wonder you don't feel sorry for breathing.”

Sansa blushed deeply and nodded. Sandor sighed inwardly. Always so damned courteous and willing to please everyone! Poor Little Bird, no wonder she had been victimised in such a disgusting manner by Joffrey and Cersei. The golden shits had known they didn't have to fear any kind of retaliation from someone as kind as her.

“Got everything, Sansa? Right. Let's go then. I must warn you though: my room is humble in comparison to this one, but we wouldn't be allowed to live here, especially not me, the ugly brute of a dog. Well, at least it isn't the barracks.”

With those words Sandor hoisted up the chest, which was still astonishingly light, and Sansa followed him while he showed her the way to his chamber. She wasn't aware of where he was lodged, Sandor knew, but this would change now. Well – couldn't be helped.

When they arrived at his door he smirked ironically, so that his mouth twitched, and he declared: “Right. My lady – welcome to the kennel!”

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor dumped the chest on the earth and told Sansa she could arrange herself as best she liked. Sansa looked around curiously, at the walls that were not covered by a posh tapestry, the floor that was only laid out with with rough, wooden planks, not with soft carpets, the little bookshelf that contained no more than three volumes – about hunting, warfare and the geography of Westeros; no, there was nothing about songs or fairy-tales.

For Sandor, it was a bit of a relief that she only mustered the room, but didn't scowl or pout. The younger Sansa back in Winterfell would have been scandalised about her new living conditions. This young woman, however, seemed to adjust without fussing around.

The Little Bird also looked at the bed, and Sandor felt awkward again.

“I had it made for me, because all the normal beds are too short. Only I didn't expect I'd ever have a wife, so it's not very broad.”

Sansa nodded; she was composed and showed no outward signs of fear, but the Hound wasn't quite sure of what she was really thinking or feeling. These days, she had perfected her detached, mask-like politeness.

Suddenly, there was some kind of... nondescript stirring; Sandor didn't know what to make of it.

Thus, he growled: “What is it, Little Bird?”

Sansa blushed and looked away, so he grabbed her chin and made her look at him.

“What. Is. It?”

“I... I only had a breakfast this morning, before the king summoned me, then, everything was so... exciting, and I completely forgot everything else, so...”

“You're hungry.”

“Hmhm.”

Sandor combed with his fingers through his hair.

“As a matter of fact, I've got a hole in my stomach, too. I'll go and get us some food from the kitchen. I could send my squire, but I guess I'll rather pick us something myself. When I show up with my face the cooks don't want to make me angry and give me the better pieces and bigger portions. I'll be back in some twenty minutes. In the meantime, you can unpack your things.”

 

On his way to and back from the kitchen Sandor reflected on his lack of knowledge about how to handle a woman, especially a wife. He didn't remember much about his parents' wedded life, but too much of late King Robert's and Cersei's unhappy marriage; Lord Tywin's Lady Joanna had never been more than a rumour, or a ghost from the past to him, and all the other arranged marriages at court didn't help him to get a clearer picture of how he should treat Sansa to not turn their arrangement into an ordeal.

His memories were drawn back to the events of the morning. He remembered her body, remembered her kisses, the way she had looked at him. As if she had started to like him. There was no denying that he was yearning for the Little Bird, but it was all hazy, and he didn't know in which way he wanted to be close to her exactly. They had not been given time, that was the problem. It had all been forced, a blur, haste and fear. He wondered, if she had probably had something like a shock from the bedding, and whether this had caused her to open up to him for a brief moment, long enough to marry him.

Yet, whatever had happened – now, they had to live with the outcome and to make the best of it. If only he knew what the best could possibly be...

 

Minutes later, Sansa surprised him with a very healthy appetite. It was as if she had to hold back from not wolfing everything down in an unladylike way.

“Oh, Sandor, this is a good choice!” she chirped happily and first started on a bowl with hot stew. Well, if her reaction accounted for anything – she wasn't afraid of him. It was weird to know she wasn't. Not after all these months, not after the way they had come together... and least of all with regard to all the people who abhorred him and nearly pissed themselves from fear. Again, his heart started to flutter in a strange way, like it always did around Sansa.

Wordlessly, he reached her a slice of bread and started on his own portion. To eat with her, to sit next to her at his simple table in his simple room, had a surreal quality.

“Sandor?”

“Yes, Little Bird?”

“I've never known what your favourite dish is. I love lemon cakes. And you?”

Sandor was taken aback and answered: “Erm. Well – food. And Dornish red, of course.”

Sansa blinked.

“Yes, I thought that a man of your size...,” suddenly, she stuttered and turned bright red, obviously recollecting his size in a very special way, “... I mean, of course someone like you would need a good portion. But what do you like best?”

The Hound was confused and shrugged.

“I eat what I get. I mean – in a war the food is monotonous at best, so I don't really think of any delicacies. Give me a nice chunk of crisp meat, that is more than you often get. Fair enough. But your kisses taste nice. Wonder if your c...”

He stopped short, tearing himself away from a sudden mental image that had popped up out of nowhere and that would make him hard in an instant, if he refocus at once. Shit, the mush that had once been his brain and his loose mouth had galloped away like Stranger in one of his angry fits!

Sansa was so flushed now that no blood could be left in the rest of her body; it all had to be right under her skin.

She coughed. Once, twice.

Then, she tried to outplay his lewd comment.

“Well. Now... there's something more. You said you'll need a new job. What do you want to do?”

Sandor was grateful she had brought up another topic.

He explained readily: “Something that doesn't mean I've got to go on a military campaign. So I'd opt for the city guard. They would certainly accept me there. Or rather: they'd accept my sword arm. We could leave the Red Keep and move into town. Now that we're married people will still keep an eye on you, but as long as no-one gets the impression that you're preparing a flight we might be allowed to live in King's Landing. Would be good to remove both of us from court.”

He had not been quite sure how Sansa would react, but it turned out that she was thrilled by the prospect.

“Oh, I'd like that!”

“Good for you”, Sandor rumbled, not ungently. “I won't be quite as well-paid any more, but I've still got the winnings from the tournament and some savings. I'm not the really rich man you'd deserve, but at least we don't have to live in Flea Bottom.”

To his surprise, Sansa put her hand on his arm, looked at him and said: “Don't think of yourself in such low terms. I've come to learn that I'd rather have you than... the position and the title I had been originally planned for. Really. I'll always be grateful that you treated me so honourably.”

At once, the Hound's ire sparked off.

Fuck, what was she talking about!? He'd watched other men kill her father, beat her bloody while only standing by and doing nothing. And he himself had raped her, even if she had been less averse than he could have possibly hoped for. Counting these instances together – which part of his behaviour was honourable?

With an angry snarl he stood up, pushed his almost empty bowl to the side and rumbled: “I've got things to do now. I'm off to King's Landing. Best stay in this room, don't open the door for anyone else and don't wait for me tonight. Just get yourself some sleep. See you later, or rather tomorrow, I guess. I'll be back late.”

Sansa looked upset when he stomped out of his room while girding his sword. Seven hells, he had blown everything to pieces again! He hadn't wanted to part on these terms. Damn him! He deserved to be flogged.

With an angry scowl on his face he swore to himself he'd do better the following day... in case the Little Bird would still allow him to try to improve.

 

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - he's still a jerk. Old traditions die hard, as it seems...


	13. Chapter 13

 

Sansa felt wonderful. Warm. Relaxed. Peaceful. Fuzzy.

 

The warmth. The source of this warmth was... a body. A large body. Behind her. She felt someone breathe against the nape of her neck. Something heavy was wrapped around her. An arm. A strong, heavily muscled one. And her cheek was resting on the hand as if it were a cushion.

 

Confused, Sansa opened her eyes – and then realisation struck her. She winced.

 

“So the Little Bird is awake?” the Hound rumbled behind her.

 

“Oh!” Sansa turned around in his embrace and looked into her... husband's face. “Good morning!”

 

The Hound looked serious, but not really angry for once.

 

“Good morning, Sansa.”

 

“When did you come home? I didn't notice you slip into bed.”

 

How incredibly tall and massive and warm Sandor's body was! Sansa was pressed flush against him. They must have slept like spoons since the bed was so narrow. Gods! Sansa blushed. How close they were! As a girl she had never been allowed to be so close to a man. Men always kept their distance and barely touched her; it wouldn't have been proper around a highborn maid.

 

Sansa breathed in Sandor's musky scent, her heart started to hobble away, and suddenly, she felt happy and proud that she could be close to a man now. Oh my, and she remembered just how much closer he could still be!

 

“I came back around the hour of the wolf. You were fast asleep.”

 

“Oh yes, I was! I've slept so well! But please tell me now: how did it go in the evening?”

 

A little smile played around Sandor's mouth, and the strangest wave washed over Sansa's body.

 

“Pretty curious this morning, aren't we, Little Bird?”

 

He was teasing her! Sansa looked at his partly burned lips, remembered the previous day and could only think of kissing him again; it was like a physical need.

 

“Well, yes, of course, Sandor! This is about our future after all.”

 

“Hmhm”, the Hound murmured, and the dark sound reverberated in his chest.

 

Sansa's heart was beating like a drum now, and her breasts, which were pressed against his torso, started to feel strangely sensitive.

 

“Well,” Sandor spoke up, “I knew into which low dive I had to go to meet the right people in the right mood. And I was lucky. As soon as Joffrey fires me I can enrol for the city guard. I'd also get a good position, not as elevated as a sworn shield, as I predicted, but acceptable enough.”

 

“How wonderful, Sandor! I'm so happy!”

 

On impulse, she embraced him... and then, her yearning broke the surface of ladylikeness, and she kissed him square on his mouth.

 

Gods! His lips were as wonderful as she remembered them!

 

Her husband was clearly surprised and winced – but then, he hugged her closer and kissed her back.

 

Little bolts of lightening flashed in front of her closed eyes.

 

Yes! GODS, YES!

 

There was a dark, happy sound on the Hound's throat, and Sansa thought she'd die from sheer joy and uttered a tiny whimper.

 

Their kissing became hungrier and less restrained by the moment. When Sandor's tongue brushed her lips, she opened them – a different reaction simply wasn't possible. And then, his daring tongue rubbed against hers, Sansa moaned... and mere seconds later, they were playing with and snatching at each other. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe – yet, it didn't really matter.

 

Sansa's hands dived into Sandor's long, dark, lank hair, and in return, her husband encircled her waist with his huge palms. Nothing had ever felt so good! There wasn't even room for embarrassment for her wanton behaviour; Sansa was so shaken, so hungry, so wild for these sweet kisses that she didn't care about anything any more. And from what she was experiencing Sandor felt just the same need.

 

Suddenly, she noticed further down that her husband was aroused. She was only wearing her shift, and he had been sleeping in his smallclothes and an old tunic – not many layers of clothing between their bodies, and she could feel his hardness clearly.

 

Finally, embarrassment kicked in, though at the same time, she liked it that his reaction to their kissing was so obvious.

 

At length, Sandor moved back a little, panting heavily, pupils dilated, and muttered: “What pretty kisses the Little Bird is capable of. And her chirpings are very promising; I feel enticed to try to have an even sweeter song from you. If only I didn't have to dress and to wait for Joffrey's call.”

 

Sansa's heart was racing like mad, her womanhood was throbbing, and she could only think of kissing Sandor again. The thought of him dressing and leaving her alone to answer the king's call was beyond her scope. So when Sandor shook his had in frustration and got up she felt strangely desperate and empty.

 

“If I could choose a breakfast freely I'd savour YOU, Sansa, best believe that, but we must both keep our strength.”

 

Sandor rose from their bed, walked to the door, called for his squire and sent for some bread, eggs, jam, butter and honeyed milk, cheese, crisp bacon, smoked trout and little sausages. Well, a man as massive as him really needed lots of food.

 

Sansa first propped up herself onto her elbows and finally stood up. She noticed the Hound's intense looks upon her body and felt very self-conscious, because her flimsy shift covered little of her skin, and she blushed, because her nipples had contracted and were protruding under the fabric, clearly visible.

 

She walked over to the washstand and cleaned herself superficially. Then, she donned her simplest gown, which was tight like the others, but it had front laces, so she could handle the dress without a maid. The hair was simply left open for the moment, plus she had the feeling that the Hound preferred it this way, in contrast to the elaborate hairstyles women liked to wear at court.

 

Then, it knocked, and the squire arrived with their breakfast. He was a short, mousy, skinny boy with a thousand freckles named Tonyen, effective, but unobtrusive. Not one of the arrogant youngsters who behaved as if they were the masters of the world, because they served a knight in shiny armour. Well, Sandor wasn't a knight, and his armour was dull and dark, but he was deadlier and thus more successful than most fancy knights. Perhaps the boy had understood sooner than her that Sandor was, in fact, a better man than most sers.

 

Sansa was still sad that the wonderful caresses had ended for the moment. To soothe herself, she first grabbed some honeyed milk, and next some bread with fine lemon marmalade on it. Sandor helped himself to some bacon.

 

While they were munching on the food more or less contentedly, Sansa shot her husband some intense looks. He had donned his chainmail shirt and had put on his word belt; he only had to fasten the weapon any more. The white King's Guard armour had already been left behind in Lord Tywin's solar. Even so, Sandor was very impressive to behold, and Sansa felt proud once more that this was her man now. Weird, but she was starting to become possessive, she had to admit.

 

“What is it, Little Bird? Why are you gaping at me? Have I grown a second nose? Or a third eye on my forehead?”

 

Sansa flushed a deep red.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to stare; I was only hoping that King Joffrey won't cause you any more problems.”

 

The Hound screwed up his eyes again.

 

“What did I tell you about always apologising, Sansa, hm? But apart from that – we can only wait and see.”

 

Suddenly, an image flashed inside Sansa's head: the Sept of Baelor, an excited, mean King Joffrey, an execution block, a man on his knees – only this time, it was Sandor. Instantly, she panicked, threw herself at her husband, trembling and not caring that some breadcrumbs fell into her auburn hair; she embraced his neck desperately and pressed her cheek against his good one.

 

“You must live, Sandor, pleasepleaseplease, you must live, you must...”

 

“Shhhhhh, hush Little Bird! Don't fret over this. Just don't.”

 

Sandor's arms went around her, held her close, he combed through her hair with a huge, calloused paw, and her scalp tickled in a wonderful way where he touched her. Oh! She'd never wear her hair in a complicated way again, because he wouldn't be able to touch her in such a delicious way then. Gods, she had been so stupid in the past! She had not known! Had wanted to look as artificial as a puppet.

 

Puppet... puppet... Sansa thought of the toy she had been given by her father. She had been angry at the time, had rejected the present haughtily. Another one of her fooleries. From now on, she wanted to make it better. She'd never reject anything her husband would offer her. Her father had been taken away from her, two brothers had followed him into the afterlife already... she wouldn't let go of the man who was holding her now. The more she got to know him, the more she thought that he was better than everyone accounted him for.

 

After a while, Sansa calmed down. Sandor gave her a kiss that was surprisingly gentle, melting even. It was as if the sun emerged from some dark clouds, and her heart sang.

 

“I'm falling in love with him”, she realised and smiled radiantly.

 

Sandor smiled back, and she could see that breathtaking light in his slate eyes again.

 

When he left to meet the king Sansa was worried, true, one always had to be when it came to Joffrey – but still she was full of hope. Once he'd come back he'd be free of the king's immediate sphere. And then, they'd be able to really start their life together.

 


	14. Chapter 14

It didn't take long. Half an hour later, Sandor was already back – and as soon as the door was closed behind him he started to grin self-congratulatory.

Sansa gasped and asked excitedly: “No problems?”

“Nope”, the Hound answered. “Sure, he wasn't really amused, the little git. You know his pouting face. Wasn't happy to lose his Dog. But Lord Tywin was next to him, so he didn't dare any bloody pranks.”

“What did Joffrey say? What did Lord Lannister say?”

Sandor waved his hand dismissively.

“Bah, as if that's important! The boy king prattled something as if his shit smelled of roses, and the old Lion only pierced him and me with silent looks to keep us reined in and to make us play our roles. Wouldn't have needed any force on my behalf, but that's what he's like. The man wouldn't have survived for so long and kept his power, if he had only had a hundred per cent of control.”

Sansa was hanging on his lips, so curious was she.

Breathlessly, she asked: “And then, Joffrey released you from your post?”

Sandor nodded and added: “Told him I had anticipated the dismissal and that I had already found a new employment, so he didn't come up with an idea of his own of where he could put me. So there shouldn't be any more obstacles with regard to moving into town.”

“Hurray!!” Sansa squealed and flew around her husband's neck, laughing joyfully. Finally, she'd be allowed to leave the Red Keep! She'd be free from Joffrey's beatings, free from his cruel games! Oh, how wonderful!

“So the Little Bird is in a merry mood, is that it?” she suddenly heard Sandor say, and his voice was still gruff, but in a decidedly friendly way.

Thus, she clung to him even more, buried her face against his neck, smiled and nodded and murmured: “Best be prepared that I'll be gabbling like a psyched duck all day now, and I can't help it, really I can't, I'm so thrilled, I'm so happy... THANK YOU!”

In reaction to that, Sandor actually chortled and teased her: “Aren't you sorry you won't be Queen of the Seven Kingdom's, wife of a king, the first woman in the capital?”

Sansa snorted in an unladylike way, and she somehow didn't know what came over her, but she let go of her husband, though she didn't step away from him; rather she looked Sandor in the eyes and blurted out with all the searing contempt that had been hidden inside of her: “Fuck the city! Fuck the kingdom! Fuck the king!”

Sandor's eyes widened, and in no time, Sansa pressed her hand onto her mouth in shock. Oh Holy Mother, what had she just said!? She flushed crimson and felt so ashamed that she wanted to sink into the ground.

And the Hound?

He threw back his head and laughed, in such a booming manner that surely they were still able to hear him in the Throne Room. Within a minute, tears of mirth were streaming down his face, and he was slapping his thighs (and it looked somehow endearing, in contrast to the same gesture coming from Joffrey).

Sansa itched to apologise, but she still remembered she was supposed not to say sorry for everything, so she tried to re-direct the impulse at least a little: “Oh my, I sounded like a tavern wench, not like a lady.”

Sandor, who was finally holding his sides and wiping off his tears, gasped back while still smirking: “Har, you barked properly, like the Hound's wife is allowed to do! And didn't my pretty lady like it to growl and to speak your mind for once? Must have taken a load off your mind.”

A new wave of embarrassment washed over Sansa – but when her husband patted her shoulder encouragingly, she felt also a little proud, actually. Sandor wasn't wrong, like so often: she did feel much lighter after her angry tirade.

In the end, she managed to giggle a little herself and retorted: “You're spoiling me, that's what's happening – but I promise: I won't swear like this all the time!”

By then, Sandor had also recovered enough from his fit of laughter. He grabbed her chin, gave her a little kiss on her nose and said: “No, you were spoiled when you came here – now, you're finally becoming yourself under all this “I-have-to-be-a-lady-shit”. At first, you pleased everyone, because you were convinced that this would secure you everyone's love and appreciation. Over the last months, you tried to stay alive and to appease the king. But now – now you can find out who Sansa really is. And if this Sansa has to let off steam, so be it! Only don't kill us by saying something like those sentences around a king's spy.”

Sansa shook her head and became serious.

“You taught me that life isn't a song, and gods, the lesson I had to learn was a hard one, but if anything I have learned to chirp courtesies while avoiding any statement that could be interpreted as treason.”

Sandor sighed and answered: “I know, Little Bird, I know.”

Next, he gave her a comparatively chaste kiss on the mouth and went on: “It's still early enough. I better leave for King's Landing now to find us a place where we can live in the future. Oh, and yesterday evening, I found a tailor who can make you some new clothes. I have already told him what you need, but you should write down your measurements for him.”

Sansa blushed and fell silent.

“What is it, Little Bird?”

“I... I don't know my recent measurements. I haven't had a new dress for many, many moons!”

The Hound looked surprised.

“You don't know your size? Hm, then we must find it out. Don't you have a tape measure amongst all the stuff for your needlework? Then, you'd only have to tell me where and how to hold it, and we can jot down some notes.”

“Yes, oh, that's a good idea! You're so practical, Sandor!”

The Hound rumbled: “Seven hells, a seasoned soldier like me has to come up with strategies for problems all the time, so this thing here isn't even a hair off my arse!”

Sansa blushed again and couldn't help it, because all of a sudden, there were memories of her grabbing his behind wantonly while... No, this was not the time nor the place, she told herself.

She dashed to the basket with her utensils for needlework and came back with a tape measure.

Seeing Sandor applying this gadget to her body was hilarious, as she had to find out moments later. He was as awkward around her as she would have been, if she had had to fight him with a dagger. Sansa bit back one grin after the next, but somehow, the air between them also became steamy again.

After her husband had found out her bust measurement, he suddenly rasped: “Damn it all!”, stopped, grabbed her and kissed her wildly. Sansa, whose heart had already been hammering and whose womanhood had been fluttering so awkwardly once more, met him with equal hunger. Somehow, they landed on the bed, Sandor on top of her, and Sansa's hands travelled under the chainmail shirt and the tunic to roam the skin of his back.

Judging by his fervent reaction, her husband was absolutely delighted, and his lips and teeth and tongue ravaged her own mouth until she felt dizzy. He wasn't being gentle now – and it didn't matter. Sansa was just as desperate. Gods, her body was awakening so fast and so powerfully! She had never expected such reactions, and she was pretty sure that they were not very common in other arranged marriages. Her septa had told her she should only lie back and endure and do her duty... but her husband tasted so good that such an inactive kind of behaviour simply wasn't enough! And Sandor didn't mind her enthusiasm, so she guessed that whatever she was doing was at least acceptable for him. Was she lucky there? Would other men have scorned her for her wantonness? But then again... would she have been so wanton around anyone else? Sansa didn't know and didn't feel the need to know more about that specific aspect. She only felt the need to have her husband closer and closer...

 

How Sandor could tear away from her at some point was a complete mystery to her. For a moment, she felt strangely... dislocated from herself.

“Shit, Sansa, if we go on like that we won't have a flat or a house in the city any time soon. And best believe it that I don't want to fuck you in the Red Keep again, not after... what happened the first time.”

Sansa lowered her gaze, fought for some self-control and nodded in understanding, even though she still felt rather flushed and her pulse was too quick for her own good. After all, she knew she had to accept her husband's decision – and his line of conduct made sense, she could see that, even in her aroused state.

So they both set up, rearranged themselves, and at some point, the Hound shook his head in disbelief and mumbled: “If anyone had ever told me I'd have a wife one day – and that it would be such an eager little bird – I'd have beaten him to a pulp for pulling my leg.”

Sansa started to wonder, if she'd ever win back her normal face colour.

To distract herself, she came up with a plea: “Sandor, there's something I'd like to ask you. A little favour, if that is possible.”

“What is it, Little Bird?”

“I don't want to live close to Baelor's Sept. You know... because of father.”

Her husband understood and answered: “I'll see to it that I'll find us a place that is far away enough from that bloody place, I promise.”

“Thank you so much!”

Sansa's voice was thick with relief.

In the end, Sandor said goodbye, gave her a final, chaste kiss and took his leave to go and find them some kind of suitable accommodation. When he was gone, Sansa sighed and was a bit discontent and restless. She wanted to pass some time with her husband, wanted to get to know him better, wanted to embrace and to kiss him again... And yes, she knew that what her husband was doing was right, but everything had happened so fast, hand over head. From what she had seen at court many spouses didn't spend much time together, didn't care for each other... but she also knew what the relationship between her parents had been like.

From the way she had started to feel for Sandor Clegane she hoped she could have a better wedded life than others, even if the Hound was no glorious knight in shining armour. It all didn't matter for her any more.

Sansa heaved another sigh took one of Sandor's few books – the one about Westerosi geography – and started to read. It wasn't a song book, but she might learn a few things from it, and perhaps that would come in handy for her communication with the Hound, who had surely travelled the continent low and far during his military campaigns.

With some effort, she finally managed to concentrate on the text and the maps – only to be interrupted and surprised by an unexpected (and not very welcome) visitor...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have revised and edited chapters 11-14. Hopefully, those changes also mean a bit of an improvement.

She didn't like his smell, that was the first thing she noticed. Like dead flowers. She wasn't sure, if he had ever been so close to her before. What on earth did he want here? Why did he seek her out? Or had he wanted to talk to Sandor?

“Oh, my dearest Lady Sansa, or shall I say “Lady Clegane”? How very good to see you up and so... well! I've come here to express my sincerest felicitations to you and your husband for this so very... unexpected arrangement.”

“Thank you for your friendly and caring words, Lord Varys, but as you can see – my husband isn't here. Though I hardly think that this comes as a surprise to the Master of the Whispers.”

Sansa's tone was light and polite, and her face wore a friendly expression, but she wasn't willing to appear more naïve than she was anyway.

Lord Varys, who was hiding his hands in the wide sleeves of his elaborate garb, smiled understandingly.

“Ah, Lady Sansa I can see that you're indeed very quick of mind. Well, how shall I put it – I feared that your husband might not be overly enthusiastic to receive my heartfelt congratulations, so I waited for an opportunity to pass on my best wishes and my offer to help you, should ever a situation arise where my humble capabilities could be of any use.”

At once, Sansa was on guard. She could have told him that he should have helped her or her father before, if he had ever wanted to do so. A man like him knew all the secret alleys and passages and could have smuggled them out of King's Landing. He could also have spoken up against the beatings or the stripping in court, yet it had been Sandor who had called: “Enough!” and who had handed her his cloak. No, the silver-tongued eunuch in front of her was up to something, or wanted to make her dependent, perhaps to make her another spy for his cause. Sansa decided to poke him a tiny little bit to find out more, even if she didn't like the topic. Better now than in an emergency case, she thought and steeled herself for the imminent verbal attack.

“Thanks for your friendly offer, Lord Varys. Perhaps you could tell me, if you monitored the bedding that led to the said surprise marriage.”

The Master of the Whispers had clearly not expected such candid words, he coughed and his face twisted for a moment.

Then, he schooled his features and answered in a slightly forced voice: “Lady Sansa, I am most astonished you want to know more about such unfortunate details. Well, as it must be obvious to you I am not very inclined to observe the private affairs of two lovers.”

Sansa heard the hidden message behind the words, sniffed and answered: “So you may not like it, but you DID watch us.”

The eunuch seemed to be cornered now; he held up his fat, pale hands in an appeasing way and excused himself: “Not personally – and only as long as necessary. When it became clear that the sworn shield was carrying out the task he had been charged with by the king you were left to yourselves.”

“It is a relief to hear that,” Sansa answered, and even in her own ears her voice sounded sharper than usual. She felt horribly ashamed that someone had really listened to hers and Sandor's first intimate encounter, and that made her angry like never before. Then, it occurred to her that Lord Varys must have had some problems, because he had not been efficient and fast enough to prevent the marriage. That thought caused her some impish delight, but she didn't bring up the topic; after all, she wanted Lord Varys to be indebted to, so to speak, not the other way round. It was weird, but ever since she had been locked up with Sandor Clegane she had started to change at a shocking pace.

For a moment, she thought that it was grotesque to talk like that on the threshold of her (and Sandor's) room, and not to ask Lord Varys in for more privacy, but perhaps that was what the man was only waiting for. No, she wouldn't let him enter her interim sanctuary.

Instead, she went on in a more reserved, but suddenly very determined way: “My husband told me that there are holes in the walls of that bedroom. I want to see these holes. At once. I want to make my peace with the idea that my first bedding was subjected to this disgusting kind of espionage, and I want to know what your nark saw. So I ask you to show me – I'd say it's the least you can do after stealing mine and my husband's privacy, wouldn't you agree?”

Lord Varys paled visibly, even though he didn't have a tan to begin with.

“Lady Sansa, I'd think it highly unwise...”

“I'm my father's daughter in that specific respect, I guess, no need to tell me. If my father had been wise he'd still be alive,” Sansa cut in.

The eunuch, who normally was an old hand in the worldly ways of mankind, was really taken by surprise. The shy, naïve, ladylike girl had started to turn into a northern wolf. Sansa had not known that she had a bit of a northern wolf within her, even less so after everything she had been through, but now, it was stirring. Emerging. She wondered if it was Lady's heritage or something else. Besides, Sandor's words were still ringing in her mind as well: “Har, you barked properly, like the Hound's wife is allowed to do!”

 

Lord Varys sighed and inclined his head.

“If that is really your wish... it shall be granted,” he uttered in a voice that sounded highly sceptical.

Sansa, however, could not be swayed. It would be hours until Sandor's return, and she had been oblivious of the Red Keep's secrets long enough.

Sansa squared her shoulders and answered coolly: “It is my wish indeed.”

At length, Lord Varys mumbled: “So be it. Please follow me!”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if Sansa's change isn't a bit too drastic... hmmm, but I like her getting confident and finding her inner wolf. Though naturally it is highly questionable whether Lord Varys is a good object for experimenting with her new self-confidence. Well, she's still so young...


	16. Chapter 16

Sansa's heart was fluttering excitedly, and she knew she had to keep this adventure a secret from her husband. He would be mad at her... and he would likely gut Lord Varys. It wasn't as if she'd feel sorry for the eunuch who was now leading her down a passage in the Red Keep she didn't recognise. The only thing Sansa knew for certain was that Sandor couldn't do anything that might endanger his life – and killing the Master of the Whispers would be judged as high treason. So she vowed to herself that her lips would be sealed about everything with regard to the thick man in his soft silks and slippers walking in front of her.

Suddenly, the eunuch made a side-step into an alcove, fumbled for something there... and the next moment, the seemingly solid stone wall gave way, revealing a dark secret passage. Noiselessly, Lord Varys beckoned her to come along, and Sansa complied. She had schooled her face to look cold and aloof, but on the inside, her heart was palpitating, and she thought that it could be heard everywhere in the keep, so loud was the uneven rhythm of the pounding blood in her ear.

As soon as she had entered the corridor, the heavy opening moved back into its former place. For a moment, it was pitch black, but then, she heard Lord Varys grope for something, and he muttered: “Wasn't prepared, my lady. Just one more second.”

Then, a tiny flame ignited and Sansa could see that the eunuch was holding a little lantern. There was still darkness closing in on them, and the lkight was just enough to make one slow step after the next. At least, the way was dry and clear, though a little dusty.

It took them quite a few minutes to reach their aim, and the thick man in front of her, who was known for his soft sweet-talk was silent for once. Probably, they were already passing other chambers with holes, and he didn't want to draw any attention to them, she mused.

Finally, they were there. In the small light radius of the candle, Sansa could see Lord Varys point at two bright dots. The peep-holes for the spies! One opening was very high, and she had to rise onto her toes to look through. From there she had a good look at the washstand, which she remembered clearly; due to a folding screen, however, not much of the room could be seen, especially not the bed.

Images of Sandor cleaning himself here after the bedding awoke in her mind, and they caused her skin to tingle. Hurriedly, she sank down again and nodded at herself. Then, she looked at Lord Varys and pointed at the next hole. The eunuch looked uncomfortable, seemingly because she wanted to have a second look.

The opening in question was close to the floor, and she actually had to kneel to be able to look through it. She'd have dirty skirts now, but Sandor didn't care much for a posh appearance, so hopefully he wouldn't ask any questions.

As it turned out, the second hole was close to the bed, but even if she squinted her eyes it was impossible to look into the bed when the curtains were drawn. It took a load off her mind to know that the spy had not been able to... watch in detail. How good that the bed wasn't positioned on the other side of the room where a wooden desk could be seen! Sansa remembered darkly that she had been sitting there at the beginning of her talk with Joffrey, though she had not paid much attention to the furniture.

Relieved, Sansa was just about to withdraw and to ask Lord Varys to see her back... when suddenly the door to the bedroom opened. Within the blink of an eye, her involuntary companion covered the light of his lantern, and they both barely breathed any more, so as not to give themselves away.

Two people were entering the chamber.

Then, there was an annoyed voice: “... I really don't understand it. I mean – what did he want to tell me between the lines? And his minty grin – bah, what a disgusting little man! I wish he'd appear some time soon!”

A second voice laughed darkly: “Yes, sure. Perhaps I'll run him through with my sword one day. But now, you should forget him for a moment.”

“You're right, you're right. Let's see, how much time do we have? Twenty minutes? We should make the best of it then.”

There was another dark, meaningful chuckle again...

… and Sansa's eyes widened in shock.

She knew the voices!

She knew the people who belonged to them!

And she got the distinct feeling that something was turning really wrong now.


	17. Chapter 17

 

“Your queen needs to be served appropriately indeed”, Cersei pointed out haughtily... pushed the knight with the white, ornate armour into an armchair, then set on the desk herself and placed her feet onto the armrests in the most outrageous way.

Sansa had full view of what was happening, even more so from her low angle, and she pressed a hand onto her mouth to keep quiet, so upset was she. The man, however, didn't seem to be scandalised at all, laughed again... and pushed up the queen's skirts until Cersei's thighs were revealed... and more. Sansa couldn't believe what she was seeing, but the queen wasn't wearing any smallclothes, and curly, golden female hair became visible alongside with her lady parts!

And the knight... well, the maids were gossiping even in Sansa's presence about Ser Osmund not caring one whit about his vow of celibacy, and she had heard that he took any woman within reach, if the wench wasn't able to climb a tree faster than you could count from one to five – but that his behaviour included Cersei! It was incredible!

“Holy mother!” Sansa breathed inwardly and knew she should look away – only her eye was glued to the peep-hole; and what she got to see next caused her mind to spin.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack leaned forward... and started to lick the unspeakable female parts in front of him!

Sansa was so dumbstruck that she nearly fell back. Nearly. But not quite.

Over in the bedroom, Ser Osmund was setting to work avidly, Cersei's hands were in his dark hair, and her face was taking on a dreamy expression.

“Yesss!” she gasped once.

Then: “Your tongue is so agile!”

And a moment later: “Oh! Goooood! More!”

On the other side of the wall, Sansa could only think: “What's she doing? Gods! What...? Surely she can't... But why should...? GODS!”

Suddenly, Cersei moaned loudly, trembled and bucked against Ser Osmund's mouth.

Finally, the knight drew back a little, grinning self-complacently.

“Is the queen contented?”

“Yes,” Cersei panted, “for the moment.”

“Perhaps the queen would be willing to return the favour then?”

“Well, if this knight has got something worthwhile to offer, I might be intrigued,” Cersei teased him... and then, she started to open certain nether parts of his armour with nimble fingers. It was clear that she wasn't doing this for the first time.

Sansa couldn't help it, but between her legs there was this weird kind of throbbing sensation again. Since Ser Osmund was with his back to her she couldn't really see his private parts, but then, Cersei was kneeling down on the earth, and he had to move sideways with his chair a little to make room for her body... and now, Sansa could see his manhood jutting upwards like a wedge.

No! This could not be happening! And this was Ser Osmund's...? And what was Cersei planning to do on her knees?

The next moment, Sansa found out and she gulped in disgust. The queen was putting her mouth on... oh holy Seven!

“Aaah!” she heard Ser Osmund moan darkly.

At length, Sansa managed to close her eyes. Gods, she wasn't seeing what she was seeing, was she? Her heart was hammering so wildly that it hurt.

Near the desk, there was a wet, slurping noise, and next, Cersei pouted: “Enough of that! I can see your cock is so very big – and swollen and hard enough now. Stick it in then. I have need of a good, deep drill.”

Sansa's eyes popped open again. What!? The queen sounded like... like an ordinary harlot!

With a feral growl, Ser Osmund pulled the queen onto his lap then, and their bodies started to clash in such a wild rhythm that surely Cersei had to be split apart any moment. Instead, she just moaned and demanded: “More! Deeper! Faster!”

Sansa felt queasy and finally tore away from the peep-hole while in the bedroom the noises of bouncing, wet, human flesh and the metallic, creaking sounds of Ser Osmund's armour continued – along with more and more shrill shrieks on Cersei's side. Suddenly, the queen screamed, and a bit later, the knight hissed and growled out his release as well.

After that... silence.

About a minute later, there were steps to be heard, and then the splattering of water at the washstand.

Cersei spoke up again: “Ser Osmund, that was a rather acceptable treatment. Next time, we must see to it that we have more time and can use the bed. By the way, I would have called you earlier in here, if that brute of a Dog had not demolished the door. It had to be repaired first. Of course, I made Clegane pay the damage.”

Ser Osmund chuckled: “I see. Well, he has found out the inspiring atmosphere of this room, too, as it seems. Had nothing better to do than to sprint to the Sept with Lady Sansa. Do you think he bound her to the bedposts? Do you think he found the riding crop in the drawer of the bedside table?”

“Fuck, what do I care about that ugly brute! I'll never understand how first my father and then Robert and finally Joff wanted to have him around as a sworn shield. I mean, yes, he's an efficient, ruthless killer, but so are others, and why would anyone want to have such a disgusting ruin of a face around all the time?”

“Perhaps you should ask Lady Sansa. After all, she married him in the Sept.”

“Pah! The dumb goose had been fucked senseless by the Hound, I mean – even more senseless than she usually is. Must have been too frightened again to make a peep and simply obeyed the Hound. – – Oh, it's getting late. The Tyrell slut will soon come over for dinner. Already pushing her fangs into Joff, she is. Out of the frying pan into the fire. Sansa was a nimrod, but at least she was harmless. This Tyrell bitch, however, is dangerous.”

“The Tyrell bitch's brother happens to have entered the King's Guard.”

Cersei snorted: “If you want to pluck the petals of that rose you're free to do so.”

Ser Osmund scratched his crotch and answered: “That rose has got thorns. Not sure if I want to risk the scratches, to be honest.”

The queen was getting angry now.

“As soon as you've had your fuck your cock shrivels up to the size of a dried plum again. And your courage as well.”

“I've just committed high treason with the queen – that's audacious enough for one day. Ask me for that special favour again. Tomorrow. Or better even next week.”

Cersei hissed and spitted and ranted about post-fucking-not-giving-a-fuck, and still, Ser Osmund wasn't really to be motivated.

 

Sansa's ears were hot and surely bright red by now, even if it could not be seen in the dark.

Finally, the door of the bedroom opened again, and the two secret lovers left. Their footsteps in the corridor retrated.

The bedroom was empty and quiet again.

A voice behind Sansa caused her body to jolt: “I am deeply grieved that you became a witness of the most... delicate situation. I hope you understand that this special kind of story has to be handled with great care...?”

Argh! Due to the... happenings in the bedroom Sansa had momentarily forgotten the eunuch. So she scolded herself internally for her state of distraction.

Sansa was actually still so upset by what she had just seen that she laughed mirthlessly and stated: “The last time a Stark tried to made some kind of high treason public he was rendered a traitor himself and lost his head. I may be dumb, as the queen pointed out, but at least I'm not mentally retarded, Lord Varys. No, I don't intend to risk my head any more than usually. And now, please take me back to my chamber, if it doesn't cause you too much trouble. I think I feel sick.”


	18. Chapter 18

 

Sandor was tired when he came back, but still rather content. He had talked to Addam Marbrand, who was now in charge of the city guard after that corrupt sucker Janos Slynt had been ditched by the Imp. As little as Sandor liked the Halfman – he had to admit freely that this decision had been a good one. Ser Addam was far more capable... though not happy to have been put into the position of being the commander of a bunch of half-professionals. The Gold Cloaks, as the guards were named, too, were not in a very good situation to begin with, and Joffrey's sadistic rule wasn't doing them any good either. So actually, Ser Addam had been grateful for Sandor's application for the job and had made him his deputy commander. This was a good thing, because it meant acceptable payment, though it was clear that the partly inapt members of the city guard would cause him many headaches in the future.

In addition to his work negotiations he had also found a little house at the Cobbler's Square in the southwest of the city. It was a decent enough part of the town, not close to Baelor's Sept and even farther away from the Red Keep. Sandor had bought the house at a low price. Seemingly, the former owner, who intended to emigrate to Pentos, had not wanted to have regular fiscal dealings with the Hound and had thus not wanted to rent the building to him. Purchasing the house had been a logical consequence for Sandor, and the offer had been more than decent – probably because the man had feared for his life, though Sandor hadn't threatened him. Beyond his normal scowl, that was.

The house itself was of average size, with two storeys, it was comparatively clean and not as dark as so many other buildings in the capital. It also had an inner yard. Sandor only hoped that Sansa would like it. Humming roughly to himself he ploughed through the throng of servants and soldiers in the corridor of the castle wing where he had his room and pushed the door open.

 

Sansa was lying on the bed. Curled into a ball. Weeping.

Sandor stiffened.

Was this about him? Had he done something wrong?

"Seven hells, Little Bird, what...!?"

"Oh Sandor! You're back!"

Sansa held out a hand towards him.

Ah. So it wasn't about his persona.

In a few long strides Sandor was at his wife's side. Turned her onto her back to examine her. At first sight, she looked unhurt. So what the fuck was wrong with her?

To his immense surprise Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him.

"Please, can you kiss me Sandor, please!?"

The Hund was dumbstruck. He wasn't used to consoling someone, least of all a nearly innocent young woman clinging to him. Females had never lined up to demand kisses from him, but bugger him, if he failed a direct request of his wife!

Carefully, he tipped up Sansa's face with his hand and placed his twitching lips on hers.

Lightening shot through his body. Shit, she tasted so sweet! And the Little Bird was in a real frenzy, as if she wanted to kiss him senseless, and damn it, she was getting close!

Hungrily, their mouths clashed together.

But after a while, Sandor somehow got back to his senses. Divine as her kiss was – her passion had been induced by some kind of sorrow, thus, he couldn't enjoy her caresses without any limitations. Even if it nearly hurt him physically he drew back. Sansa tried to follow him with her lips, but he held her at bay. His wife uttered a desperate sound of protest, but Sandor couldn't be distracted again.

“Little Bird – what on earth has happened? Did you come across Joffrey? Did he play his cruel games with you?”

Sansa shook her head decidedly.

“What is it then, wife?”

Slowly, but surely, Sandor was losing the little amount of patience he possessed.

Sansa flushed crimson red and stuttered: “Oh, it's... I was stuck in a place today, and I had to... to watch a couple, because I didn't want to draw their attention to myself. And they were wild. I... I don't think they loved each other, but... gods, I'm so clueless in comparison! I mean – how can I ever hope to make you happy? It was all so weird, I had never heard of such things, and perhaps I should do it, too, to make you happy... only it was so disgusting!”

Sandor's jaws worked in annoyance, and he rasped: “Sounds like a true King's-Landing-fuck to me. But don't you worry. You mustn't bloody compare yourself to all these official and unofficial whores. Their embraces are meaningless, hollow; they can alleviate your need, but they cannot make you happy, no matter which techniques and finesse they're capable of. I tell you: one of your kisses gives me more joy than a tumble with the best harlot in the capital.”

Sansa looked at him, Tully blue eyes wide open and an expression of utter incredulousness on her face.

The Hound sighed then, combed through his hair and mumbled: “Bugger me, Little Bird, what do I know about lovemaking myself? I may have been with a few... harlots before, but actually, I'm the clueless one when it comes to interacting with someone instead of just killing that person. Sansa, I'll be honest – I don't know how to be a good husband. I don't know how to make you happy. So you really don't have to be ashamed, because I'm not any better off. We can only grope in the dark together and hope we won't accidentally reach into a shit pot. So to speak.”

Sansa sniffled one last time then, rubbed at her puffy eyes... then suddenly started to giggle and pressed a hand onto her mouth to stifle the sound.

“What, Little Bird?”

“Oh, I can't say it!”

“Tell me, wife!” Sandor insisted.

Sansa blushed and uttered in a small voice: “You've got such a strong, metaphorical language – if you ever chose to use some decent wording you could be a famous poet!”

Sandor gaped – and Sansa burst into such a fit of laughter that she pressed her face into a cushion and was weeping again, only this time from boundless merriment.

At some point, he shook his head in disbelief and only rumbled: “Me – a poet! Fuck me sideways, my own wife is pulling my leg!”

And then, he was barking his own laughter and fell with his back onto the mattress.

Suddenly, Sansa looked at him with an insecure grin, and at the same time also in an inquisitive way.

She asked him, blushing once more: “Is that possible?”

“What do you mean?”

“To... to f-fuck you sideways.”

That, in its turn, caused Sandor to grin mischievously: “Oh yes, sure. If you should get interested one day – do tell me. I'll be happy to oblige.”

On hearing his words, Sansa was so embarrassed that she buried her face against his chest, but at the same time, she was still giggling, so she seemed to be all right.

A moment later, Sandor's stomach started to growl, announcing its own needs and wishes.

Sansa teased him: “Oi, is the Hound a ventriloquist?”

And Sandor chuckled: “Hear the rascal that is my wife! My dear lady, I didn't know you could be so naughty!”

They both laughed, and Sansa went on: “To be honest, I'm hungry, too. Can I come with you to the kitchen?”

Sandor looked at her and commented: “Yes, why not? You look as if I've just terrorised you so that you've been crying. Just in case we should come across someone important you'll look authentic.”

They chuckled again, then schooled their expressions and marched off to get themselves some good food – and Sandor was deeply relieved that Sansa's mood had improved so soon; besides, he was also a little proud that he had been able to make her laugh with his crude jokes. He wondered if his own eyes were twinkling from secret delight like hers, and he couldn't remember when he himself had last felt so much at ease.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for coarseness.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 

 

It came as a surprise to Sansa that all of a sudden passing time with Sandor Clegane was so... simple. Somehow, the ugliness of his scars wasn't at the forefront of her perception any more when she looked at him; and though he still tended to be bitter or angry at times there was suddenly an increasing number of situations when his rage and his tension left him. Oh, and those tender moments with him! Of late, he even showed some signs of humour, though it was a mocking and sarcastic and coarse one. Still. On average he was in a much better mood than before their hectic wedding.

 

Now, they were walking down the corridors of the keep, and somehow, the light tone of conversation from their chamber was still lingering between them. Sandor impressed her with a profound knowledge of the servants in the keep and told her many ribald anecdotes about them. Had these stories come from her wild little sister some months before Sansa would have looked down on her, but she had lived through too much and had become too accustomed to her husband's rough ways to be truly scandalised any more.

 

“That chap over there”, Sandor was just growling into her ear and nodded ahead of him.

 

“The bald one with the flabby cheeks and the wart under his ear?”

 

“The very same one. His name is Lommy Tinker. But he's better known under his nickname: Lommy Bigsmell.”

 

Sansa's eyes opened wide.

 

“What!? That's a mean nickname!”

 

Sandor, however, chuckled: “If only you knew! He's famous for entertaining people by farting so loudly on command that the fabric of his trousers tremors!”

 

Sansa's hand flew to her mouth, partly shocked, partly embarrassed, but also giggling.

 

“No! You're having me on, haven't you?”

 

“Absolutely not! A dog will die for you, but never lie to you. And it'll look you straight in the face. And now: do you want to know of the biggest adventure of Lommy Bigsmell?”  
“What is it?” Sansa asked at once.

 

Sandor grinned at her until his mouth twitched and murmured conspirationally: “Some months ago, one of the youngsters from the stable asked him to perform – and held a burning match under his arse. Boom! There was a darting flame, and next, you could see Lommy's blackened behind through his charred trousers.”

 

At that moment, Sansa stopped and erupted in peals of laughter. Gods! When had she laughed like that the last time? And next to her, Sandor was barking out his merriment as well. Two or three heads flew around and looked at them incredulously. Well, that couldn't be helped. Sansa didn't want to be ashamed of some small sounds of levity any more.

 

 

 

Finally, they reached the kitchen and had just turned serious... when suddenly, the door opened and Ser Meryn Trant came out. He glowered at them, but then, he held his nose high, seemingly thinking himself to be better than Sandor, and strutted away towards the better parts of the castle.

 

Sansa shuddered and whispered to Sandor, remembering the many times she had been beaten by Ser Trant: “What a disgusting man!”

 

Sandor nodded.

 

“True enough – put he's also a pathetic sod. I mean – which kind of chip do you have to have on your shoulder, if you take pride and joy in striking a defenceless woman? But I'll tell you a secret now: he had a nickname in the past, too.”

 

“Do you mean “toad”?”

 

Sandor shook his head.

 

“Nah, that's another one. See, that little bugger is such a miserable creature he's basically calling for being called names. No, I'm talking of something years ago. Meryn, the Kingslayer and me were on the road and in the same military unit. One night, we were all tired from the long march. Ser Meryn fell asleep close to us while the Kingslayer and me were still downing a tankard together. And then, our “toad” started to dream. The food had been bad on our way, as usual in the army. Anyway, Ser Meryn dreamed of a big, crispy piece of meat – and then, he bit himself heavily into his own hand, so that he came awake squeaking. Ever since, the Kingslayer and me have called Ser Meryn “schnitzel” amongst ourselves.”

 

For a moment, Sansa could only gape at her husband – and then, she started to laugh so hard, in heaving spasms, that she feared for a moment that she might lose control of her bladder. But oh, it was so good to be able to laugh about a man she had only been afraid for weeks and months! When Sansa was able to get a grip on herself after a while of helpless – and very unladylike – guffawing she realised that it gave her back some self-confidence, since she could finally see that it wasn't her who was the pathetic bastard, but rather her tormentor. That, in it's turn, made her feel deeply grateful for Sandor's sarcastic japes.

 

At length, she smiled at her husband and stated: “What a hilarous story! But for now, I could do with a real schnitzel – lest my stomach doesn't shrink to a tight knot from hunger.”

 

Sandor chuckled, and his grey eyes were sparkling with mirth.

 

“I can also tell you a story about the main cook and a certain mishap on the privy, but I'll better wait with those dirty details until after dinner, I guess.”

 

Sansa actually mocked him then: “Ha! The Hound and his lust for disgust!”

 

Sandor only cocked his brow and retorted: “Well, what did you expect, wife? After all, dogs love to sniff at other dogs' arses!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Let me tell you: the anecdotes in this chapter have actually happened! Not to me, but I know someone who has witnessed these things. Yet, I've not told these incidents just for fun, they do have a function for Sansa in the story.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry you didn't get an update for a while. I was very discouraged to go on writing in general because of a certain incident that occured on another platform, plus there was/is lots of stress in my job at the moment, so one thing added to the next. I still won't be able to update regularly until Christmas, but I wanted to leave a sign that I'm not giving up writing.  
> Concrit is always very welcome, and if something sounds weird I'm grateful for corrections since I'm no native speaker. You can't learn without goofing, can you? If there's anyone who'd like to be a beta for this story I'd be grateful. Oh, and I have finished a story, a Roman antiquity AU, rated "E" (yup, very smutty) - featuring Sandor as a slave and Sansa as his mistress. If anyone is interested to beta that story of about 15 pages - that would be wonderful, too.

 

After they had eaten – and eaten well – they both returned to their room.

“We'll have to pack our things now. I want to leave this room for good early in the morning, best ere anybody can summon us for a final duty or for a humiliating goodbye.”

Sansa's eyes widened.

“Tomorrow? Really? Already? Have you found a flat or a house?”

“Yes, Little Bird. A little house. Nothing elegant or impressive, mind you, but decent enough. It's situated at the Cobbler's Square in the southwest of the city. Not too bad an area.”

At once, Sansa was enthralled, and she asked her husband about all the details. The Hound wasn't refined in his wording, but he knew how to deliver a factual description of their future lodging, and Sansa liked what she heard. It was in no way comparable to life in a grand place like Winterfell, but to be honest she had had enough of living in castles for a while.

Together, they set to work and stuffed their belongings into two chests and a middle-sized box. They both didn't own many things, Sansa noticed. Sandor possessed his clothes, weapons and armour (he would be wearing his sword and his chainmail the next day, the rest would go into an extra bundle), there were his few books, some handkerchiefs with the Clegane sigil embroidered on them... and, strangely enough, a silver locket Sansa had never seen before.

When she spotted it she took it into her hands, opened it and discovered a miniature portrait of a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman barely older than her.

“Oh, who's that?” Sansa asked the Hound, who had just been rummaging in his cupboard and who had not noticed their finding.

He turned around – and froze. His jaws started to work, and his eyes suddenly turned a darker shade.

“Put. It. Away!” he ordered.

At once, Sansa dropped the piece of jewellery, shocked. What had she done wrong to upset Sandor so?

Still, she also remembered his words not to apologise for everything, and so far, she did not know which mistake she had made.

“Who is this, Sandor?” she broached the subject again.

Her husband was visibly fighting some inner demons, and it took him a full minute or two before he could answer.

“That's... Zinya,” he spat out.

Sansa tilted her head, but said nothing.

Finally, Sandor threw his hands into the air and rasped: “My dead sister.”

Sansa gasped, hurried over to her husband, embraced him and mumbled: “Oh, I didn't know!”

The Hound fended her off a little and retorted: “No, of course you didn't. She's been dead for many years, people didn't know her beyond my father's keep, because she never moved away from her home... and I don't want to talk about her. I... just don't. You see?”

Sansa looked up at him and nodded. Of course, she wouldn't needle him with questions about his sister. Perhaps one day, when they had settled down and grown close, she'd ask him about her. Probably when it was time to name their first daughter.

At those thoughts Sansa's heart beat faster. Oh my! What was she thinking!?

Suddenly, Sandor's hand grasped her chin like he was wont to do.

“What is the pretty Little Bird thinking that she's blushing and glowing like the setting sun?”

“I...,” Sansa stammered, “... I was thinking of how I could console you, and... my thoughts turned to... marriage matters.”

Sandor was dumbfounded.

“What in the seven hells – you thought of fucking me for consolation?”

Sansa's embarrassment rose to a new level.

“My thoughts may have... strayed into that direction.”

That seemingly forced the Hound to sit down on his chair near the table in shock.

“Whoa,” he uttered, “my dear Lady Clegane – if I may say so: you're getting wanton! Was there anything special you saw this afternoon that has caused you to hatch such explicit thoughts?”

At once, an image of Ser Osmund Kettleblack's head between Cersei's thighs flashed through her head, only to be replaced instantaneously by a picture of Sandor's mouth on her own body.

Wildly, she shook her head and gasped: “Nonono, nothing so outrageous, please! Just like... just like the first time!”

Sandor cocked his good eyebrow and swore: “Seven bloody hells, what did you see that you're suddenly so nervous?”

Sansa shook her head again, so the Hound growled: “I told you about my sister. Now, it's your turn to tell me something.”

Sansa was panting by then, and a tear stole down her cheek. The new mental image of Sandor and herself was suddenly haunting her, and she didn't want to have such unladylike needs. More tears followed.

At length, she managed to sniffle: “The man was kissing the woman. I mean... down there. And then the same happened with reversed roles. And in the end, the woman was sitting on the man.”

Strong arms went around Sansa's waist, pulled her onto Sandor's lap and cradled her against his broad chest.

“I see, Little Bird. Shh, don't worry, I won't do that to you, if you don't want it. And at the moment, I don't feel like doing anything of that kind, to speak truly. Talking about my dead sister, or facing a snotty wife doesn't turn me on, you know. But it's all right. I don't need a pity fuck.”

“Sandor, I didn't mean it like that!” Sansa blurted out.

The Hound only chuckled darkly and commented: “Never mind. You know what? We'll just go to bed now. It's been a long, eventful day. Let's get some sleep, and tomorrow, everything will look better.”

Sansa nodded meekly.

Together, they walked over to the bed. Since all her things were already packed no nightgown was ready for Sansa, so she just got down to her smallclothes. She blushed once more, but told herself that she shouldn't be ashamed. Sandor was her husband now, and they were supposed to be close. Even so, she slipped quickly under the blanket. Behind her she could hear Sandor strip and divest himself. When the mattress sagged under his weight she realised that he'd only be sleeping in his smallclothes as well.

The last candle was blown out.

The narrowness of the bed caused them to lie flush against each other once more, and Sansa's heart was fluttering madly now. Sandor's warmth and physical presence reminded her of their first bedding... and once again, there were these wild images in her mind. She also remembered how the muscles of his buttocks had worked under her hands while... Seven help!

Against her will, she was suddenly wet between her legs. Gods, he smelled so good! Did Sandor taste so good as well? His mouth certainly did. But what about the rest...?

And then, something within Sansa snapped apart, she flung herself around to face her husband, she threw her arms around his neck and started to no less than plunder Sandor's mouth. At first, he was overwhelmed, but then, he started to react hungrily.

“Little B...”

He didn't get any further. He simply didn't get the chance to do so.

By then, Sansa had lost control completely. She was reduced to feeling, and never before had she felt so intensely in such a positive way.

At least she thought so until she could feel Sandor's hands cup her breasts. A mewling sound escaped her mouth, and she herself pressed closer. A moment later, the shoulder straps of her undershirt were pulled down, and her torso was laid bare. The cool air caused her nipples to tighten even more than they already had.

“Holy shit!” Sansa heard her husband moan in between kisses and what were seemingly wide-eyed glances at her barely visible bosom (oh, why did it have to be dark in the room now!?), and mere seconds later, his hands were on her body again. His calloused thumbs circled around her nipples, and his hands were hot against her skin.

This time, it was Sansa who was moaning. At that, Sandor tore back a little, but before Sansa could protest against the end of the kiss her husband's lips replaced one of his hands.

“Sandor!” she called out and bucked into his mouth.

And her husband first nuzzled her, then started to lick and to suck and to tease her gently with his teeth. Next, he changed to the second breast and started to resume stroking her with the hand where he had already feasted.

It was so unbelievably maddening that Sansa didn't know her name any more, and she was crying again, only this time from sheer joy, and her hands were fisting the mattress while Sandor simply couldn't get enough of her. To some extent, she realised that her husband had started to finger himself under the blanket, but she could only care inasmuch as his his tongue flicked over her nipple in an according rhythm.

Between her legs the pounding feeling had become incredibly intense, and she didn't know how to cope with it any more. She started to throw her head from one side to the next. And then suddenly the dam broke, and wild waves of bliss rushed through her body. Her muscles contracted spasmodically and she wailed like a wolf that was greeting the moon.

Next to her, there was a dark, primal grunt, and then, Sandor twitched like her. A moment later, there was a wet substance on parts of her legs, but Sansa was still so far beyond everything that she couldn't care less.

“Shit, Little Bird, what... you can come just from getting your teats fondled!?” the Hound breathed, incredulous.

“I can do what?” Sansa panted, confused.

Sandor winced.

“Damn, you don't know what I'm talking about? I was asking if you've had some kind of... lustful peak.”

“Oh. I see,” Sansa stammered and whispered: “Yes, it felt like that. It was wonderful. You were wonderful. No, you ARE wonderful.”

The next moment, Sansa was crushed to her husband's chest again, and he muttered, deeply touched: “Oh, my Little Bird!”

Her heart swelled with tender feelings.

A bit later, Sandor was getting back to his normal self, and he mocked her: “Tell me, my pretty little wife, was that a pity fuck?”

“What!?” Sansa yelped... and then, they were suddenly both laughing and scrambling playfully in bed.

At long last, the Hound rumbled: “All right – I don't know about you, but I've spent myself and I'm getting really tired now. Let's clean ourselves from my seed, and then, I want to sleep. We'll have a long day tomorrow.”

Sansa acquiesced with yet another blush. Her body felt strangely heavy and tired, too, and the last thing she thought before she drifted off was that their previous intimacies were probably just a foretaste to what was still ahead of them. With a smile on her lips she resigned herself to sleep.

 

 

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


	21. Chapter 21

 

(21)

 

The next morning was just as busy as Sandor had expected. He called for his squire, Tonyen, and instructed him with where to deliver the chests with their scanty possessions. A little cart with a mule, which he had ordered the day before, was already waiting in the yard to be loaded.

Sansa turned out to be excited and also a little nervous, but at the same time expectant and positive, which was a good thing. Again and again, she was pestering him with questions about their new lodgings, chirping like a true little bird, and she was as unnerving as endearing as she had ever been. At some point, Sandor became snappy and cursed, like so often. He couldn't help it, and he felt bad for it, but at the same time he thought that he had to concentrate on the imminent work at hand. There would be time for talking once they had left the Red Keep and started to settle down in their house.

The trickiest moment was when Sandor sat atop Stranger's back, Sansa had mounted her own mare clumsily, and they had reached the castle gates. Two guards were at the gate where they intended to leave the keep. Of course, he knew them, even if they were only average soldiers. One of them was a green boy. The Hound would only have to snarl once, and the lad would let them pass. The corpulent, grey-haired veteran with the two missing teeth on the other side of the gate, however...

“Clegane! Where do you thing you're taking the lady? She's the king's ward. She has to stay in the keep. Or do you have a letter of consignment?”

At once, the atmosphere seemed to cool down noticeably, and Sandor glowered at the ageing guard.

“Treyler, you are forgetting yourself! I dare you to address me so brazenly again, understood!? And just in case you want to survive the day you'll let me and my wife pass – MY WIFE, not a ward any more, understood? The king has given me leave, and this is exactly what I'll do: leave, and settle down in the capital.”

Damn it all, under normal circumstances Sandor would have already cut down this Treyler for his bloody insolence! Only with Sansa at his side and under the given circumstances he couldn't simply kill a guard on duty. Shit! Shit!

“Clegane, you're not my superior any more, as you well know. Looks as if the Hound was kicked out by his master. Anyway, you can put your tail between your legs, for all I care, but the Lady Sansa won't go anywhere before I haven't seen a letter of consignment.”

Sandor's jaws worked. This blasted Cleos Treyler had always been a troublemaker; it was a wonder how he had been able to live to that age, but now, the man had just signed his death warrant. Thee Hound's mind was working at breakneck speed to come up with a solution to their problem. His fingers were irking to draw his sword, and images of a severed head and gushes of warm, coppery blood popped up in his mind.

He was just about to give in to his sanguinary fantasies, which might well end in his own demise, his execution, to be precise – when Sansa spoke up and addressed the guard in a surprisingly steadfast voice.

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

The Little Bird was chirping back into the yard where she seemed to have spotted something – or rather someone.

“Ser Kevan! How very good to see you this morning! Please, would it be asking too much whether you could help clarify a little problem?”

Sandor was dumbfounded. Of course, he had known that Lord Lannister's brother had arrived at the keep and had even been announced Master of Laws, but he had not given thought to whether Sansa would recognise the elderly man easily as she had lived remotely after their marriage. And what surprised the Hound even more was that the Little Bird should be willing to speak up and to ask a Lannister for help! The Lions had mistreated her and her family so badly, and she had been so very intimidated and traumatised by Joffrey that he had thought she'd rather bite off her tongue than to seek direct contact with a Lannister man. Yet, here Sansa was, chirping her most polite song and proving her true worth and strength. Who or what had inspired so much courage in such a short timespan he couldn't think of. He could only guess that the fact that Lord Lannister's brother had not been present during her ordeal and thus not responsible for it made things easier for the Little Bird.

Ser Kevan, who had just entered the court, had heard her and sauntered closer, seemingly a little puzzled as well.

“Clegane. Lady... Sansa? What is it, my lady?” he first acknowledged the Hound and was then obviously guessing her name from what he had heard about her and from what he knew about her mother's looks.

The Little Bird smiled, which was another surprise since she couldn't wear her courtly mask of stoicism in this situation.

“Ser Kevan, I'm so delighted to meet you as we didn't have the chance to be introduced to each other so far. Please, I'm only asking a tiny little favour, a trifle to shed some light upon the situation. My Lord Husband and I, we're moving into Kings Landing because of my Lord Husband's new appointment in the City Guard. Now, this dutiful guard is asking for a letter of consignment – otherwise, he doesn't want to let me leave the castle. 

You see, since I'm a wife now and therefore no ward any more we didn't think of asking the king for a written permission to leave the keep. I can assure you that we're planning to take up residence at the Cobbler's Square where my Lord Husband has bought a house, and that we have no intentions to leave the city. Naturally, we still want to be of service to the throne. Can you, as a member of the Small Council, give us an interim authorisation to leave the Red Keep? Later, the Hand may well decide to confirm the arrangement or to call us back as he sees fit. We really didn't intend to cause any problems.”

Sandor didn't think Sansa had planned to cause three grown, battle-hardened men to gape at her like carps on land, but this was the actual effect of her refined little speech. Seven bloody hells, when had the Little Bird learned to chirp in the complicated language of diplomacy?

Just at that moment, Ser Kevan regained his senses, and he smiled and chuckled: “Clegane, I was told your wife was as beautiful as dumb. The former I see confirmed – the latter must have been the misjudgement of the century. No wonder I didn't get a chance to meet her – if I were you I'd keep such a woman at my personal disposal in my private chambers as well. But be that as it may. – Lady Sansa, I've heard of, how shall I put it... the sudden changes of your private affairs. Now that I get to know you I can only deplore the fact that you have been lost for the Lannister family. Coming to the momentary little problem I'll allow you leave the Red Keep for the time being. Yet, I'd ask you to report to Ser Addam Marbrand, the new commander of the City Watch, on a daily basis so that we'll know you're still in town. Should my brother be against this arrangement he'll give you further notifications. – Guards, you may let them pass!”

 

Cleos Treyler and his colleague stood at attention, but Sandor decided that this wouldn't help the elder guard to survive the week.

The Hound cleared his throat while Sansa was already chirping her thanks at the Hand's brother, and he stated flatly: “My thanks, Ser Kevan. We're indebted to you now – and I don't like it to be indebted to someone.”

The portly Lannister man arched his golden-grey eyebrow, smirked and answered: “Ah, I cannot say the same. I'd say that it feels good to have you indebted to me as you're a very capable man. This permission was a favour easy enough to give, and it will be interesting to see in which way you'll repay me one day.”

Sandor growled something unintelligible under his breath, flicked the reins and cantered off with Stranger. Behind him he heard Sansa say something more to Ser Kevan, some kind of ladylike, polite response he himself would never care or be capable of. He sighed inwardly and felt once more that Sansa would have deserved someone good, someone fitting, not a ruffian like himself. Well, it was no use to hang on to such self-destructive thoughts. It was the way it was, and he'd do for her what he could. Keep her safe at least. That was still more than most people could hope for in these buggering times of war. More than those living family members Sansa still had could hope for.

Sandor nodded gravely to himself – yes, he'd keep his Little Bird safe. Always.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday morning I didn't know how the story would go on I have to admit. I mean - ok, our turtle doves are at Cobbler's Square now. So? Anything more relevant that might happen, apart from them getting closer, which would be nice, but still suboptimal? Well, I sat down yesterday evening and did some planning, and now, the story is finished. In my head. And there's still a bit of action to come, that will give the title some more meaning, that much I can tell. Even if today's chapter is only a filler. ;-)

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

(23)

 

They were riding northwest through the capital. Yet, Sansa had no eyes for the bustling crowd, nor the sounds of mercurial city life, nor the manifold smells one could expect of many people penned up so close together. No, where she had been looking forward to finally being out in the open her mind was completely elsewhere now.

She was trembling, and badly so. Her mare was a gentle animal, but she had never liked riding, which added to her discomfort. What really shook her inner core, though, was what had just happened. She had sweet-talked Ser Kevan Lannister! A Lion from the Rock!

In the respective situation she had just reacted. It had been clear as light that Sandor's anger had been on the rise, that he had been close to making a horrible mistake and to kill the unnerving guard then and there – but this would have only backfired, even she had been able to see as much. So she had been quick-reacting, and on spotting Ser Kevan she had addressed the man in spite of never having been introduced to him officially.

And now that the momentary stress had abated her bones were rattling, including her teeth. Sandor was riding a few paces ahead on his black, heretic courser, Stranger. After some moments, her husband finally turned around to say something to her, as it looked, but then, his words died on his lips before he could speak them, his eyes widened, and he slowed down his horse so she could draw level with him.

“Little Bird! Seven bleeding hells, what is it?” he rasped.

Sansa drew breath and tried to get a grip on herself.

“It would have nearly all gone wrong, Sandor!” she managed to utter, her voice quivering.

Her husband looked deep into her eyes then.

When he spoke he was serious, but also composed: “Yes, you're right, Sansa, it would have nearly gone wrong. But it didn't. Thanks to you.”

It occurred to Sansa that Sandor was much more accustomed to narrow escapes than herself. Being a warrior, he was more capable of shrugging off past dangers.

Sansa exhaled, and his steadfast demeanour helped to soothe her nerves. So did the unmistakable warmth in his eyes.

“He's proud of me!” she suddenly realised in awe.

Oh.

It started to dawn on her that she had just saved them from a dangerous situation, and Sandor knew it well and admired her for it. Not for what she looked like, or for who she was, not even for what she had chirped at Ser Kevan. No. He admired her for what she had achieved, for what she had DONE. She, the usually helpless, weak young woman, who had used to be subdued and humiliated.

Her heart started to pound, and her thoughts must have been reflected on her face, for her husband started to grin; he leaned over to her, got hold of her chin and confirmed her impression: “It's true. The Little Bird has had her maiden flight.”

A mischievous sparkle stole into his eye.

“Even if she isn't really a maid any more.”

Sansa's cheeks were aflame with embarrassment within seconds, and Sandor let go of her chin with a chortle.

In a much better mood they trotted on.

 

It took them a while to reach Cobbler's square as the throng in the street slowed them down, but now, Sansa could enjoy the ride a little more.

King's Landing was still dirty and foul and overcrowded with ragged people from everywhere of the Seven Kingdoms, refugees from the war, but luckily, the situation wasn't quite as precarious as it had been during the bread riots, so Sansa was cautious, but not afraid. Sandor was riding at her side, armed and as impressive as the infamous Lannister Hound could possibly be. With him next to her she didn't have to fear much.

Between the clop-clop-clop of their horse's hooves and the chatter and yelling and swearing and disputes and laughter of the people around Sansa managed to say: “Tonyen and the cart with the mule will take quite a while until they'll reach the house.”

Sandor nodded: “That's true. Perhaps we could have a breakfast at a nearby inn. We could also leave the horses there for the time being. Later, I'll take them to the stables of the City Guard where we can keep them. Since you are supposed to show yourself to Ser Addam Marbrand on a daily basis anyway you can look after your horse easily. Our house has got a little hen coop in the yard, but sadly no stable.”

“I see,” Sansa said. “Yes, that would be a good solution for the horses then. And you're right – I could do with a nice breakfast, too, now that we've finally left the keep.”

“Fine! And here we are! This is Cobbler's Square. Look! There's the Black Boot Inn, the big building thatched with straw over there. I've been there a few times. A decent enough publican in there, no good wine, but strong ale and hearty food. And even you as a woman can go there without fearing anything. Our house is in a side street branching off the square. It's called Gaiters Lane.”

That caused Sansa to laugh: “Funny name! I can't wait to see it – but I can't wait to get something into my belly either. I've got a hole in my stomach.”

“Let's go then, Little Bird. And we must see too it that Tonyen and the cart driver will get some food there later, too, as the house is still empty, and there are no servants either.”

Sansa nodded and smiled: “I was raised to supervise a fortress, Sandor; I promise that our house will be flourishing within a few days!”

Her husband grew serious within a moment and rumbled: “And a fortress is where you belong and what you'd bloody deserve.”

Sansa startled and assured her husband: “I've seen enough of keeps and fortresses, and I'll be happy with our house, no matter what!”

Sandor sighed darkly then, halted his horse in front of the inn and dismounted while muttering something under his breath. The burned part of his mouth was twitching. Sansa got off her own mare and sighed, too, though for her own reasons. Her husband had this grumpy, morose nature, and he'd never become an outgoing, airily man – that much was clear. But then, it crossed her mind that she probably wouldn't like him as much as she had come to do, if Sandor Clegane were any different.


	24. Chapter 24

 

Sansa was curious to get to know her new home area. The “Black Boot” didn't look run-down, and the little windows with the bull's pane windows and the bright yellow shutters looked inviting.

Together with Sandor she passed the horses to the stable boy, and they entered. Rough-hewn wooden beams gave the interior a rustic appearance, as one could expect, but everything was orderly and clean.

A few people who looked like local merchants were enjoying their breakfast, and the scent of fried bacon filled their nostrils. Commoners usually couldn't afford to eat meat on a regular basis, so it meant that the customers here didn't belong to the poor townsfolk. Still, Sandor and herself attracted some curious looks. Of course they did.

“The traders who provide the cobblers with their materials often come here to have a bite – and the local shoemakers come here for the ale,” Sandor informed her.

Behind the counter, there was a young, good-looking man with dark hair and green eyes. His confident demeanour told Sansa that he had to have a leading position in the inn, despite the young age: either he was the publican or the publican's son.

“Good morning! Sandor Clegane?” he greeted her husband politely.

And Sandor rumbled back, though comparatively good-naturedly: “As you can see. And this is my wife, Lady Sansa. We need a good, hearty breakfast now since we didn't have the chance to get a bite at the Red Keep. Eggs, bacon, bread, milk.”

The innkeeper nodded eagerly and answered: “I could also offer the lady some honeyed pancakes.”

“Fine.”

Sandor sat down at a table close to the counter and pulled her next to his side.

“Is this a good seat?” Sansa asked.

“Yes,” Sandor murmured back, “because I can see the door. Being able to see the door can save your life.”

Sansa shuddered on hearing this, but she understood that her husband would adhere to the survival strategies he had ingrained in war.

Three or four minutes later, two big plates with food and a little basket with bread were put in front of them, and they both enjoyed a delicious meal.

While nibbling on the pancake Sansa asked: “Do you know the innkeeper's name? I feel as if I should get to know our future neighbourhood.”

“Now that's a very reasonable attitude, Little Bird. Well, the man's name is Shane Corbell, and he inherited the inn from his father half a year ago; his sire had a heart attack, from all I've heard. If there's anything you want to know you have to ask Shane; he's a good-natured man, but his job also means that he's a focal point for city gossip.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow.

“I see...”

She thought of Lord Varys and of whether the eunuch had already placed a whistle blower amongst the customers. It was likely. She'd be careful. At the same time, she was starting to like the inn already, and she felt that they wouldn't be here for the last time.

 

 

Half an hour later, they finally stopped in front of their new house. Sansa was incredulous and gaped at the building. Even if the plaster was dirty now – since King's Landing didn't allow much cleanliness – the walls had originally been whitewashed, which was totally uncommon.

“The house belonged to a Pentoshi, Little Bird, that's why the style is so weird and why he sold it at such a low price. He's on his way back to the Free Cities now. Come, let's go in.”

On the inside, everything was as Sandor had described it: light and clean, two storeys. On the ground floor was the kitchen living plus a store room, and on the first floor, there were two bedrooms. In the attic, two little chambers for servants had been added.

There was also a trapdoor that led to a cellar, and Sandor explained: “At the bottom of the cellar there is another trapdoor. It leads to King's Landing's subterranean tunnel system. It's barred now so that nobody can enter from the other side, but in times of a crisis the secret passage might be helpful. The former owner has left us a map that shows you how to reach a place close to the harbour via these tunnels.”

Sansa could only hope they'd never have to use this kind of knowledge, but since one never knew...

 

The backyard was walled in by other houses, and there were the privy and the empty hen coop – and also a patch with herbs, which was a nice surprise. The house was void of any moveable furniture, apart from a double bed.

“That thing is too bloody short for me,” Sandor declared with a scowl. “We can try to find and put a stool at the end for the time being, but I need to commission a new king-size bed. The one back at the keep is too narrow for the both of us, so there is no way around investing some money. We also need a table and some chairs. The ones at the keep were not mine. Until then we'll have to use the chests for sitting and putting down things.”

Sansa noticed that they'd need some kitchen equipment, too. And wood for the fire. Well, it looked as if there was quite a bit to do, but she didn't mind. She felt useful, which was a completely new sensation, and she rubbed her hands together energetically.

 

A little later, the cart with their possessions arrived. Tonyen and the cart driver helped to haul in the things and were sent to the “Black Boot” afterwards. While Sansa and Sandor were still bustling about, there was suddenly an elderly woman in widow's colours standing in the open front door.

“Good morning! My name is Lyssa, and from the way it looks we're neighbours now. Can I help you somehow?”

Sandor spun around, glowered at her and snarled: “You can stop prying into our affairs! I know a curious crone intent on gossiping when I see one.”

Sansa was shocked by her husband's rude behaviour and tried to apologise, but the woman was already... clamming up, holding her nose high in the air, spinning around and leaving.

“Sandor! That was unnecessary! She's our new neighbour, and she wanted to be friendly!”

“Pah!” Sandor made. “She's a curious hag who's tattling all the time. I noticed her already when I was buying the house – she was glued to the window and watching my every single movement. And now, she wanted to make friends with a high-born lady to be able to make a show of it in front of the other women in the quarter. Don't tell me about her likes. Before you can breathe in and out once women like her are already trying to dig up details about our love life – and what they don't know they'll make up. And to give them a sheen of reputability these women run to the sept twice a day. The only thing you can do is to keep them at a distance.”

Sansa didn't know what to say to that. She felt still scandalised because of her husband's behaviour, but at the same time, she knew that he had used to be right in so many ways. With a sigh she shrugged and went on unpacking her needlework from her chest.

“On another note, Sandor – IS there a sept close by?”

“Nah, but there's a sandstone chapel of the Seven at the Cobbler's square. Should serve you and your gods well enough, since you didn't want a house close to Baelor's Sept.”

Sandor's grumpiness was slowly rubbing off on Sansa, and she actually snapped at him, admonishing him he shouldn't deride her of her faith. At the same time, though, she was asking herself what was going wrong.

Sandor threw his hands in the air in frustration and declared he'd be at the carpenter to order the new bed and left her without another word. Bang! And the front door was shut.

Sansa pressed her lips into a thin line.

“So much as to this,” she thought and hoped that the Hound would vent his negative emotions before he returned.

She organised a stool for the bedroom and bought some bread and a jug of beer for the evening from Tonyen's change when the lad returned from the “Black Boot”.

 

Sandor was gone for a long time, all day, actually, and when he returned Sansa had already retired to bed, disappointed. The fact that her husband was as drunk as a skunk and had blood on his arms and clothes didn't help to improve her mood one whit.

“Sandor! Where have you been? What have you done? Are you all right?”

“Pffft,” he answered and spoke with a slur: “Had to sort out some things. With someone. Oh, and before I forget – the bed will be delivered in a fortnight. Took the horses to the stables of the City Guard as well. Addam Marbrand – he's bloody frustrated he's the new commander, and he's happy to have me at his side now. Made me deputy commander. Didn't sit well with some Goldcloaks. Bah. Buggers, all of them. Had to train with some troops. All afternoon. Never seen so much incompetence. Shit!”

Next, Sandor fell back unceremoniously and started to snore some moments later.

Sansa was desperate. Her husband was drunk and smelly and too heavy to be cleaned properly or to be moved into a better position. She got a wet rug and tried to wash him as best she could, but that was all she could do. Unhappily, she grabbed her cushion and her blanket and moved over to the other bedroom.


	25. Chapter 25

 

The next morning turned out to be equally strained. Sandor was suffering from a hangover and was as taciturn as Sansa had ever seen him. He only told her gruffly where he had hidden his savings and that she could take whatever she deemed necessary... and he didn't really want to look at her.

Sansa felt miserable. She had thought that once they'd have their own house and wouldn't be in the king's surroundings any more her husband would be more relaxed. She had expected they'd start to deepen their relationship and had hoped to reach a loving togetherness, but she couldn't feel anything of that.

Sandor just washed himself, donned his clothes and chainmail and called up in the direction of the attic where Tonyen had settled into one of the servants' chambers. The good lad, however, had already been up and cleaned Sandor's armour in the kitchen. Since not enough food was left from the previous day they all walked over to the “Black Boot” for another breakfast.

It was raining, which didn't improve their mood, but Sansa thought that the fresh air on their way to the inn revived her husband a little. Still, she kept quiet and didn't feel like talking much herself.

 

When they had eaten half their breakfast Sandor spoke up: “Little Bird, it's best to accompany me to the City Watch's headquarters right away for your daily meeting with Ser Addam. It'll be raining all day anyway, judging by the clouds, so it would be good for you to get it over with. Tonyen can see you home safely afterwards. Besides, in the afternoon I expect the seamstress I contacted to deliver the first two new dresses for you. Some more clothes will arrive at the end of the week.”

That caused Sansa to brighten up a little bit. Her already tight dresses were becoming more uncomfortable and shabbier to look at by the day.

Once outside again, the streets were muddy from the rain, and Sansa realised that she needed some good, new boots as well. Her delicate slippers from the Red Keep were no use here and the boots she had brought along from Winterfell were now hurting her feet since they'd become too small as well.

When they arrived at the headquarters of the City Watch, Sandor took his leave from her.

“I'm off to work now, Little Bird. The sodding bastards here need lots of training.”

Her husband was about to turn around and to stomp off when Sansa took hold of one of his hands.

“Won't you give me a little kiss?” she asked timidly.

Finally, Sandor looked at her again. His slate eyes were stormy once more, and he appeared to be deeply troubled. Nevertheless, he bowed down, cupped her face with his calloused hands and kissed her – and from one moment to the next, there was all the tenderness she had been craving for in that little gesture.

“Why now, when he has to leave, and not earlier?” she asked herself, confused.

An instant later, Sandor stepped back, coughed and murmured awkwardly: “Well. That's it. See you tonight, Little Bird.”

Then he was gone.

Sansa sighed. Why did it have to be so complicated between them?

 

A flight of steps further up, she was admitted to Ser Addam's solar at once. The copper-haired Lannister man welcomed her politely.

“Lady Sansa! I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. I've already been told you'll report to me daily from now on. I can assure you that it'll be the nicest task of the day.”

Sansa returned the smile and thanked Ser Addam for his friendly words. The new commander of the Gold Cloaks was a rather handsome knight, and he had a self-confident air, but lacked the typical Lannister arrogance. Moreover, his eyes spoke in tune with his mouth, Sansa realised, and in this city of falseness it was a nice surprise.

“Then I'll be looking forward to our meetings, too, Ser Addam. My husband told me he's deputy commander now. Is that right?”

The copper-haired man nodded gravely.

“Indeed, my lady, indeed. I'm very relieved to have him at my side now. You see, I've known him for many years and his competence is undeniable. He knows how to fight, and he's also capable of leading men. I need both qualities in the City Guard. The last commander, Janos Slynt, was a corrupt and mean bastard, so there is a lot amiss amongst the Gold Cloaks now, and I'm sure the Hou... your husband will be able to teach them well what it means to be guards and fighters.”

Just at that moment, Sandor's grating voice was wafting up from the training yard: “You daft whoreson! Don't hold the bill like a fishmonger would a dead kraken!”

Ser Addam chuckled and said: “Sandor Clegane – always a source of inspiring analogies.”

Sansa had to laugh then, too.

Turning serious again, Ser Addam went on: “I've heard of the... let's say... weird way you both came to marry – though I'm not sure, if all the rumours about you are true. I only wanted to express my hope that... you are not too unhappy. It's true that the Hound is an effective killer, and he's rough and disfigured, but I've known him for so long and I feel that there are many worse men than him.”

The words “like King Joffrey” were hanging in the air, but were left unspoken. It was safer this way for both of them.

Sansa looked towards the window again where the clanking sounds of weapons could be heard now.

“Ser Addam, I've come to find out that my husband isn't quite as bad as people make him, and I think I might start to care for him. It solaces me greatly that I'm not the only one who thinks better of him than so many others. Probably even better than he thinks of himself. At the same time, he's... a complicated man, and it's a challenge to be a good wife for him.”

The red-haired knight looked at her gravely: “Even at your young age and after what you have experienced you've got a wiser and gentler heart than many. I'm starting to regret I never thought of marriage before you were bound to Clegane. Well, be that as it may. What I can tell you is that he must be rather insecure at the moment. He's never known a loving home, he's never expected to marry, has never experienced a woman to look at him with gentle feelings. His burns made him a loner, and he's never known how to be close to someone. When he was young he had no real friends at the Rock. Until he was too tall and too dangerous for them the other lads even bullied him. He's better around animals than around humans. And now, he's supposed to be a husband, and he's clueless. He doesn't want to show it, but he's as helpless as an illiterate man who's supposed to read a book.”

“Oh.”

Sansa was touched and confused at the same time.

“But Ser Addam – I... I've learned that he has... he has been with women before.”

That earned her a compassionate look.

“Lady Sansa... even if you have been wedded and bedded you're still new in the field of intimacy, if I may say so; I guess you can't know. Your husband may have had a few encounters in the past to alleviate his primal needs, but those were exchanges he had to pay for. They had nothing to do with positive feelings, nothing with affection. There's nothing romantic about it. And Sandor Clegane is a proud man, which made things worse for him. I can remember a scene at the Rock when Lord Tyrion flipped a Gold Dragon at him and told him that men like them would only ever get a woman's embrace in this way, and that he should better accept this fact. Just in case you've ever asked yourself why the Hound detests the Imp so much. Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken so frankly to a fine lady like you, and even less so since we've only just got to know each other, but I think you deserve to understand.”

All Sansa could do then was to approach Ser Addam, to take his hands and to squeeze them gratefully.

In a trembling voice she answered: “Good ser, my husband may not have known friendship in the past, but judging by your words this is about to change. And I'll always hold you in high esteem for that.”

The knight's eyes lit up on hearing that, and he murmured: “Perhaps I won't apply for another post after all. And with regard to love and friendship – don't use these words in your husband's presence, Lady Sansa, or he'll balk like his demon horse. That black courser of his has already nearly unmanned the first stable boy, and I need my Gold Cloaks safe and sound.”

Sansa couldn't help herself – she exploded with laughter, and Ser Addam joined her sounds of levity. When she left the solar after five more minutes of friendly conversation with the commander of the City Watch she felt downright mirthful and thought that from now on it would be easier to understand her husband – and she felt emboldened to do everything to fight for their love and to make them both happy.

 

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Down in the yard, Sandor heard the laughter and looked up to the window of Ser Addam's solar. What was going on there? Sansa had been sad when he had left her. What had happened to make her happy again so soon?

The Hound thought of Ser Addam Marbrand, of his friendly ways, of his handsome appearance. Damn. The bloody knight was already leaving an impression on Sansa! On his wife! He should have known! Sandor's jaws worked and his mouth twitched.

A Gold Cloak, who he was training with, attacked him. Seconds later, the man was lying on his back, unconscious. The other guards who had been watching turned tail and fled. They were poorly-paid, poorly-trained cowards. Bugger them all!

Sandor swore and ran after the men to punish the most craven ones and to rein the others back in. That way he didn't see Sansa leave the building, look for him and on not finding him walk back home.


	26. Chapter 26

 

In the evening, Sandor was marching home with long strides, sweaty and wet from the rain and frustrated as all seven hells. Somehow, he had managed not to beat smiling Addam Marbrand's face to mush during his evening report.

Damn, why had he killed this bugger Cleos Treyler the night before in this tavern brawl? He'd have needed that kill now to let off some steam. Bloody bastard.

Sandor swung his fist, which was still stuck in his gauntlet, although there was no physical enemy, and two or three frightened city inhabitants hopped to the side to make room for him. The Hound growled and stomped onwards.

When he arrived at his house he went in, smashed the door shut and started to put off his armour right next to the entrance since he didn't want to bring any more wetness into the room. Shit, and where was Tonyen? He was supposed to help him. Sandor growled again.

 

Suddenly, a lithe, warm body crashed into him like missile, and before he could breathe or think a laughing Little Bird was hanging round his neck.

“Sandor! Oh, you're back! You're back! I've already been waiting for you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're so wonderful!”

Seven hells, what...? But he didn't get any further, because Sansa pulled herself upwards and kissed him so wildly on his mouth that suddenly the room was spinning around him. Within the blink of an eye his brain was void of any thoughts. He had no idea what was going on with his wife, but fuck him, if he could end that kiss first!

When Sansa finally withdrew and opened her Tully blue eyes they were so bright from sheer happiness that Sandor's heart wanted to hop out of his ribcage.

Sansa looked down at herself, wrinkled her nose and chirped: “Oh my! Now, the wonderful new dress is wet! Ah, but luckily, it's no delicate fabric that could be ruined easily, it'll dry again. Oh, and you're drenched! You must come upstairs and change into something warm and dry. And I must change now, too, but the second dress is just as wonderful! This blue one and the brown-and-green one, really, they're adorable! And they're big enough! Gods, I feel so free again! Come up, come up! And do you know just how wonderful you look when you're wet? The Warrior himself could envy you! Your breeches are clinging to your legs, and one can see each single muscle, I swear!”

Sandor felt really dizzy now. Bugger him, what on earth was his Little Bird saying!? It made no sense.

Without further ado, Sansa took him by the hand and led him upstairs to their bedroom, and Sandor was incapable of offering any resistance. His eyes were glued to his wife. It was true! She was wearing a new dress, a normal, simple gown for the house, to be precise. But by the seven hells, she looked like a bloody goddess in it! And she was radiant! He had never seen her so beautiful.

Up between his legs there was a telltale reaction... and the thought of them getting out of their wet clothes only helped to increase his need.

The next moment, they were in the bedroom, and Sandor couldn't help himself and he breathed into Sansa's ear: “You said I should change into something dry and warm. What about changing into a wet and warm wife instead?”

The Little Bird looked up at him, momentarily confused, but then, she read his eyes, blushed sweetly and answered: “I sent Tonyen to the “Black Boot” for his dinner. We've got the house for ourselves.”

“How bloody convenient. What a clever little wife you are. I think I might want to have YOU for dinner.”

Sansa was crimson now. Sweeeet.

She even uttered a giggle and demanded: “But you have to put off your clothes first! You're much wetter than me, and we have to rub you dry so you won't catch a cold.”

Sandor chortled and commented: “Rubbing is a very good idea, if you ask me.”

His wife was even more embarrassed now, if that was still possible, and he was having the fun of his life. He couldn't believe how fast his mood had risen from depressed and angry to... enthusiastic!

Swiftly, he pulled the chain-mail over his head, then his tunic, next he put away his boots and finally his breeches. It was only good that he had already managed to divest himself of the heavier armour downstairs.

When he looked at his wife again he could see her stare at his aroused member, and she seemed to be strangely perplexed. Oh, yes, he reminded himself – it was the first time she was seeing him completely naked.

Thus, he pointed at himself and announced in a mocking tone, as if he wanted to introduce himself: “Cock – Sansa. Sansa – cock. I daresay you've met before.”

The Little Bird looked up at his face, then down again, up and down... and suddenly, the corners of her mouth twitched. The next moment, she started to suppress bubbles of laughter. And finally, she lost it completely, threw herself onto the bed and laughed so hard into the cushions that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Sandor was taken aback. Once more. And he was indignant. His cock softened as fast as it had grown stiff. What the fuck was his wife thinking?? People had always reacted badly to his face, he was accustomed to that, but not once had a woman ridiculed his member! Not once! Moreover, he didn't even know what was supposed to be wrong with his cock!

“Seven hells, woman, what do you think is so damned funny?”

“Oh Sandor, hahaha, I'm so sorry, hahaha, it's got nothing to do with you, I mean, not really, hahaha...”

Losing his temper, he rapidly knelt on the bed, grabbed his wife and shook her.

“Explain yourself!”

Sansa was still not quite able to be serious, and she giggled: “You see, I told you about the lovers I saw in the Red Keep, didn't I? Hihihihhi. And the man – hihi – he was probably half as big as you down there, perhaps a little more – hihi – and the woman – hihi – she told him he was big! Will you believe it? Big! But it was only a little stump in comparison to you!”

And then, she started to laugh all over again, even though she was already holding her sides.

Sandor was at a loss of how to react to this. Hm. At least she wasn't laughing at him. And she wasn't afraid of him. That had to be a good sign.

Hesitantly, he opted for a jesting tone when he explained: “Well, Sansa, it's actually no wonder the woman did that. Tell a man he's got a big cock, and you can demand anything from him.”

Only his wife didn't laugh about this revelation; quite the contrary, she suddenly turned serious and hissed: “Manipulative bitch!”

The next moment, Sansa winced, and she pressed her hands onto her mouth in shock.

Sandor was surprised, too, since he had never heard her say something so unladylike. He realised there had to be more to the story than he had thought at first.

“Sansa, who was that woman?”

His wife paled, and Sandor had a dark premonition he might not like the answer.

“Oh, just someone stupid from court, husband. Really. Let's just forget this episode.”

The Little Bird's panicky reaction made things even fishier. Sandor didn't give up, and after some more probing and pressing her he finally had the answer. Cersei. Kettleblack. Varys. The Hound felt very, very sick.

Sansa's laughter had turned into sobs, so he held her close. His hands trailed through her hair. After some minutes, she calmed down, but Sandor knew the lustful moment had passed. Now, he needed to divert his wife a little.

“Come, let's put on some dry clothes, just as you've suggested. Have you had dinner? No? We should join Tonyen in the inn then. I'll lend you my waterproof cloak so your second dress will be fine in spite of the rain.”

Sansa nodded, blew her nose, and no five minutes later she had changed into her other new dress. Gently, Sandor took her by her arm, and together they set off. On the outside, he tried to appear controlled, but on the inside, he was deeply upset. His wife had watched an act of high treason, which could prove to be as dangerous for her as knowing of Cersei's incestuous children had turned out to be for late Eddard Stark. He could only hope that Varys would keep his mouth shut – and wouldn't use his knowledge against them.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nightmare, followed by shameless fluff.

 

At night, Sandor awoke from Sansa tossing to and fro in their too short bed. There was some whimpering from her as well.

“Nonononono, please, nononono!” she was weeping.

Being a light sleeper, these days Sandor woke up often, because he wasn't accustomed to having a body so close – well, apart from a soldier to keep warm during a frosty military campaign, of cause. What he had never done was to actually sleep in bed with a woman, so his slumber was interrupted repeatedly by Sansa's sheer presence. This time, however, things had a different quality.

For a split second he feared his wife might be ill, but then he realised that she was just dreaming... though it seemed to be a horrible nightmare. He knew the demons in his own head too well, so he nudged her and murmured into her ear: “Hush, Little Bird! Wake up! Everything's all right.”

Sansa started, disoriented, but a moment later, she recognised her surroundings and him. After another heartbeat, she rolled herself around to face him, still crying, and to the Hound's surprise she threw her arms around him and pressed herself against his body in absolute relief.

“You're alive! Gods, you're alive! Please hold me, please hold me!” she pleaded.

Well, Sandor couldn't deny her, and he cradled her against his chest.

“There, there, Little Bird, everything's all right. It was just a nightmare,” he tried to soothe her.

Obviously, Sansa still needed to talk now, to chase those ghosts away, and she sobbed into his skin: “It was in front of Baelor's Sept. Lady was there, chained, and father and mother and Robb and you. And the people – they were screaming and hooting, and Joffrey was grinning. Suddenly, I saw Bran on top of Baelor's Sept, and he was hurled down by Ser Ilyn. I watched my brother being crushed to death. I wanted to scream, but my mouth was sewed together with golden yarn. Next, Joffrey pointed his crossbow at Lady and fired, and Lady looked at me with her dying eyes, and she was so disappointed of me. Father was the next one to die, and it happened exactly like it did back then, and Joffrey was laughing. Next, I don't know why, but suddenly, Lord Tywin was there, and he stepped behind mother and Robb, who were bound and kneeling, too, and he... and he PEED on them from behind, only it was acid, and they were devoured by it. And you were the last one – you were bound, too, and Joffrey handed me Ice and called me Ser Ilyn and ordered me to kill you like I had killed father – and somehow, I was Ser Ilyn, and I lifted the sword and... and...”

Sansa sobbed again, wildly, frantically, wailing like a banshee.

Sandor's heart went out to his wife; he pressed her close until it surely had to hurt her. His wife had lost so much over the last year, had been through so much shit. And she had survived, though it was clear as daylight that she was partly fractured now by all the traumas. Fractured like himself. If only he could help her, undo for her what had gone wrong, but that was beyond him. The only thing he could do was to hold her. He uttered the same cooing sounds he would have used for a frightened pup, and his hands started to trail through her tresses and to rub her scalp lightly.

After some minutes, Sansa started to relax, and a while later, they both drifted back into sleep.

 

This time, Sandor's slumber was unperturbed until the next morning when the first rays of the rising sun tickled his hooked nose. He sniffled lightly and opened his eyes, feeling a kind of fuzzy happiness and peacefulness. Next, he looked down and saw that Sansa was still sound asleep, quiet, and had buried her face against the skin under his armpit.

The Hound was a little puzzled then, because he was sure his wife wasn't experiencing a fragrant revelation there, and yet, she looked absolutely at ease.

“Seems as if the Little Bird has found a nest,” he thought with a smile.

 

However, Sandor's contentedness didn't last long, and he turned serious again. He thought of the fact that a fortnight before Sansa had still been a maid, and frightened of him. Now, she was snug at his side as if she belonged there. How much she had changed in such a short time!

And Sandor didn't fool himself: it wasn't all romance between them. Over the past months he had added to her plight with his rough ways, socially illiterate as he was, and then, he had bedded her against her will and made her his wife. True, he had not really wanted to harm her, never ever, and back in that blasted bedroom she had given him a sign, had acknowledged what he had been forced to do without blaming him. Once again, she had proven to be so strong, to persist, to endure where others would have crumbled. Instead, she had adapted. Her ability to adjust was probably her most typical character trait – and the most outstanding and remarkable one.

Sandor pondered that when her parents had wanted her sweet and naïve she had been sweet and naïve to please them, that when Joffrey had wanted her to be a victim she had been so very frightened and hurt and subdued – and now that the Little Bird was married to him she had started to change yet again. She had come to accept his black humour, had started to talk more openly, had even used some unladylike language, wasn't afraid of looking at his ugly body, was willing to give him the caresses he was craving for, and had accepted his way of life, which was all right, but humble in comparison to what she had known before.

And all of this in spite of her still being so young. True, Sansa had flowered and was considered to be a woman; in addition, life had caused her to mature fast. Sandor hoped that he had not harmed her too much with his actions, but he didn't pull the wool over his eyes: he had added to the damage done and he could only try his very best to do her good now. The problem was: he didn't know how he should treat her. He didn't know a thing about a happy marriage, a healthy relationship or love. He was just a brute, a scarred dog who had not even kept any fleas for company in the past.

The Hound sighed. With his history and his looks he'd always have to pick the way down the rocky path, he knew. Hopefully, the Little Bird would be able to follow the same way.

 

Suddenly, Sansa stirred, opened her eyes, lifted her face... and on seeing him a sleepy, but bright smile immediately emerged on her lips. At the same time, her Tully blue eyes lit up in a fitting, and yet extraordinary manner.

Sandor's heart started to hobble as if he were a green boy. Well, in some ways he was one, he came to admit. For his wife he felt a warmth in his heart he had never felt before for anyone, and the feeling still seemed to be intensifying by the minute.

“Good morning. Thank you for tonight,” Sansa murmured and rubbed her nose against his big one before kissing him softly, taking her time, tasting him and utterly undoing him with her blissfully tender caress. 

Sandor's stomach somersaulted, and while he tried to emulate her way of kissing as best he could he marvelled: “Bugger that! So that's what love feels like.”

 

 

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

 

The next days were a jumbled mess for Sandor. His new work was frustrating, to say the least. The Gold Cloaks were in a dire situation. Their corrupt former commander, Janos Slynt, had not cared about his troops, only about his own well-being. Thus, Sandor and Ser Addam had to clean up the mess now. He himself had to train with men who didn't have a bloody clue of which end to grab when holding a sword, because they had never had a proper drill before, men who lacked motivation and those who were generally dumb – and then, there were men where all of those shortcomings got together in an unholy alliance. It was maddening.

Luckily, Ser Addam was a capable boss who the Hound could live with better than with most others. So Sandor controlled his evil temper to get along with the man, and they ended up discussing a lot together. Ser Addam appreciated his experience and his frankness, so when it came to organising the shifts of the troops, the training methods, the equipment and the supply of the horses they shared their thoughts – and their many frustrating moments, which made things easier to bear. They also sparred together and duly impressed the buggering lackwits they were in command of.

 

Apart from that, Ser Addam and Sansa had taken to each other at once as it seemed. Often, Sandor would look for traces of betrayal, but there was never even the slightest spark of a guilty conscience to be seen in their eyes – and his wife wouldn't have been able to keep a guilty conscience from him, being such a bad liar as she was.

 

Sandor's domestic situation was a very mixed one, too. Slowly, the house looked a bit more inhabited. Sansa and Tonyen were doing their best to organise some furniture, and luckily enough the new, big bed was delivered soon. The “Hound factor” had certainly helped to speed up the construction process. Interestingly enough the Little Bird continued to sleep close to him, as if they were still crammed up in the smaller bed, and the Hound took quite a bit of delight from this fact. He didn't fuck her, for various reasons, but they were mostly on friendly, even cordial terms, and that was so much more than anything he'd ever expected to have with a woman!

There were a few exceptions, though, as one might expect. One day, his wife was overjoyed when the other dresses and a pair of new boots arrived. In fact, she was so excited that she couldn't stop chirping all evening until Sandor lost it and growled at her he was close to pasting up a bird's beak. Sansa pouted then and left the room, nose held high like a lady. In the Red Keep she would have never dared to treat him like that, and it partly infuriated, partly entertained him. Well, he guessed he had to be grateful that her confidence was on the rise again.

 

Their neighbours, however, were a completely different matter. This hypocritical widow from next door, Lyssa, was becoming a pain in the neck again. After her initial feelings of being offended had cooled down she was trying to wipe Sansa's arse with silk once more and strove to drag the Little Bird to the sandstone chapel repeatedly. Bah. What a lickspittle! It was only good that Sandor was out of house for long hours of the day, otherwise he'd surely beat that old hag to a pulp sooner or later.

Luckily, Sansa seemed to be polite, but to be keeping her distance at the same time – and she was already finding out that around these nosy people it was either all or nothing. This Lyssa was trying hard to pry upon them and their relationship, and the Little Bird was starting to understand his words, so he was quite confident that she'd tell their barnacle of neighbour off soon.

 

Yet, the inhabitant on the other side of their house seemed to be even worse – in the sense of “more dangerous”. Sandor had had to tell Sansa soon that this cobbler named Jaspy (what a name, it sounded as if the man were an overbred lapdog – and overbred then man probably was) would likely turn into a troublemaker soon. Actually, he already was one.

His outward appearance and posture reminded Sandor strongly of late stick-in-the-arse Stannis Baratheon, only that this Jaspy wasn't a nobleman, and if he himself was already an expert when it came to vulgar language he could still learn quite a bit from this cobbler. The man had an endless assortment of obscene imagery with regard to leather, shoenails, soles, heels, shoehorns, brushes, lasts, shoelaces, shoe sizes (the latter ones especially in comparison to cocks) and polish (his equivalent for female love juices).

This Jaspy's endless nasal, self-righteous ramblings were often heard in the Black Boot Inn, and they galled Sandor's and Sansa's joint visits there. The only allowance the Hound could give his neighbour was that he was a staunch and outspoken critic of Joffrey. In these days, his stance was a sign of courage – or of cockiness.

Anyway, Sandor was very careful not to associate with this man. He wouldn't have minded to kill him, but he couldn't run around and slay everyone whose nose he disliked. Even less when he had to keep his Little Bird safe. Still – Jaspy reeked of riot, he exhaled a foul, infectious kind of anger wherever he went, and the Hound could only hope that the cobbler wouldn't drag them into some kind of catastrophe.

 

Another thing that made him cautious were the religious developments. Lately, there was an undercurrent of religious fanaticism in the city. Overly devout hypocrites kept arriving in the city. You only had to open your eyes to see that something was amiss. It likely had something to do with the new High Septon. Perhaps it was good that Sansa was praying so much for them publicly in the chapel at the Cobbler's Square.

Heathen as he was Sandor had always despised religion and mocked the gods. He had never understood nor liked religious prattling, and if the fat, corrupt previous High Septon had already been bad this new lighthouse of the Faith was far worse and more dangerous in his own way. The atmosphere in King's Landing was thickening yet again, of that Sandor was convinced.

 

The people in the Red Keep seemed to be rather oblivious of this fact. People there were busy preparing the king's wedding. Sandor sneered. The little shit. What would not-quite-maiden Margaery Tyrell say about her husband after the wedding? Would there be a rude awakening? The brood from Highgarden was as ambitious as sly, and if Sandor was honest he was more than happy not to be in the first rank at court to experience the recent plotting any more.

Fortunately, Sansa posed no real threat to Margaery Tyrell, now that she was married to Sandor, so likely Sansa wasn't in immediate danger any more.

However, the same couldn't be said of Sansa's family. It became all too obvious when they received the news from the Twins. Dark wings, dark words.

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

 

The morning had already been pretty horrible. Sansa's moon blood had started, and she was embarrassed and touchy because he had noticed her state. Well, how could he not since she was suffering from quite a bit of pain? Thus, they already started off in a deplorable mood – and then they got out from the frying pan into the fire.

To their surprise, Ser Addam was already waiting for them outside the headquarters of the City Guard, and his face was so stony that Sandor knew right away that something horrible had transpired. Guardedly, he took the Little Bird's wing, and his wife was already tensing from a dark premonition.

“Sandor, will you come up with me to my solar, instead of starting the training in the yard right away?” Ser Addam asked.

The Hound shrugged his shoulders, signalled his willingness and followed his commander.

 

Upstairs the copper-haired knight propelled his wife onto a couch.

“Well, what is it then, Marbrand? Spit it out!” Sandor rumbled, his patience running short.

Ser Addam cleared his throat, looked out of the window and drew breath: “Lady Sansa, I'm a bird of ill omen today. I'm bringing... dreadful tidings.”

Sansa paled and retorted in a toneless voice: “Has Robb been killed in battle?”

Sandor could only think that his wife really wasn't as dumb as the Lannisters had believed her to be. Of course, the news had to have something to do with her family, and Robb was the likeliest victim.

Ser Addam ran his hand through his hair and still couldn't bear to look at them.

His voice was uncharacteristically papery when he answered: “I fear... it's worse. Your Lady Mother and your brother Robb – they were betrayed during your Uncle Edmure's wedding at the Twins. Your uncle survived and your great-uncle, the Blackfish escaped, but your mother and your brother... they were killed.”

Sandor knew that life was unfair and cruel, and he had already seen so much shit in his life, but when he heard his commander's words even he had to gulp. And he immediately suspected that they weren't being told all the horrible details of what must have been slaughter, given the circumstances.

 

Sansa took the news in without the slightest sign of emotion. Her face was an impenetrable mask. Suddenly, she was wearing her mail of ladylike politeness again, which she seemed to have shed after the time of her betrothal to Joffrey.

Her voice was cold and analytic when she stated after a moment: “Late Lord Walder and the Freys in general have always been fickle bannermen. The Lannisters will find that out soon, too, mark my words. Whatever the gain of this deal was – the price will have been too high. If I were Lord Tywin I wouldn't let a Frey come near my back. And if I were Lord Tywin I wouldn't stand behind my own back either. You may forgive me, Ser Addam, as you are loyal to the Lannister family, but the execution of a traitor is one thing, and an honourable death in battle is one thing – but political murder is something completely different.”

Sandor froze in shock. Sansa's words were as clear-cut as if she were handling a maester's knife for surgery – however, the problem was that they could be classified as high treason. After all, she was charging the Hand of the king with betrayal and with slaying a political adversary. While the act itself certainly bore the Old Lion's handwriting this simply couldn't be said aloud.

The Hound coughed and said to Ser Addam: “As you can see, my wife is completely shocked by the news; she doesn't know what she's saying. Forgive her her brashness.”

The knight relaxed on hearing his words and answered readily: “Of course. Women say many things in their grief that they'd never voice otherwise. Think of Lady Lysa and Lord Arryn's death – she was beside herself, too. This kind of sensitivity seems to be in the Riverrun blood.”

Sansa kept quiet and didn't object. Appearances had to be maintained, and even in her state of shock she must have realised this.

At the same time, the three of them knew that what she had said was true – her accusation as well as her threat to annihilate the orchestrator of the killing, if given the chance. Sandor remembered the moment on the battlements when she had almost pushed Joffrey to his death. Yes, the usually gentle Little Bird had it in herself to kill in a particular context. Under her red plumage she did have some northern claws, well-hidden as they were. And even if Ser Addam didn't grasp the whole scope of what she was saying he didn't discount her announcement as female chatter, unlike so many other men would have done in the same place. His heedfulness showed his worth, blasted knight or not, the Hound had to admit.

Yet, he couldn't dwell further on this point. He had to focus on his wife.

Sansa's coldness was unnatural. Right now, she looked like an ice queen and the Wall seemed to be between her and the rest of the world. The shock seemed to have gone right to her core.

 

Lord Marbarand spoke up again: “My lady, on a personal level I am sorry for your loss. And now, I'd ask you to stay here in my room for your own safety while your husband is on duty. – Clegane!”

Ser Addam's head pointed towards the door. Sandor had just been about to call the man a bloody bastard, and to tell him he wouldn't leave his wife alone for one second; now that they'd have a secret word he just managed to stay quiet for another moment.

As soon as they were on the other side of the threshold he snarled: “Bugger that! My wife needs me now! You can go train those blasted Gold Cloaks yourself!”

Ser Addam narrowed his eyes and answered piercingly: “You will go down to the training yard and fight until you have calmed down enough to be able to console your wife. In your present state you wouldn't be of much help to her. Look at yourself! You're like a dog who doesn't know how to lift a leg in front of a tree at the moment!

I will keep an eye on Lady Sansa in the meantime, and I was just about to actually offer you to train the men myself today a little later. All this time behind the desk is making me soft and I'm in dire need of some exercise myself. But if there's one more insolent bark from your side I'll withdraw my offer and reduce you to the ranks – and what kind of help would that be for your wife, I ask you? And now: off with you, and do your duty!”

 

Bad news travelled fast, and not half an hour later Sandor had heard some gruesome details about what people were already starting to call the “Red Wedding”: mass murder, “The Reynes of Castamere”, cut throats and a parade with the dead body of Sansa's brother, his direwolf's head sewn into place where the human head had been chopped off.

The only good thing was that Sansa had not been told about the disaster by a cruelly cackling Joffrey.

 

Sandor was just hacking like mad at a straw puppet when he suddenly heard Sansa's wailing voice emanate from Ser Addam's solar.

At once, he turned on his heel, bellowed at another man: “Go, get the Guard's maester, for fuck's sake!” and stormed off, to his wife.

When he arrived at the solar Sansa was experiencing a kind of fit, and her arms and legs were thrashing uncontrollably, while she was howling like a madwoman. It took both him and Ser Addam to hold her so she couldn't hurt herself.

Two or three minutes later the maester arrived with some milk of the poppy. It turned out to be difficult to feed her the medicine, and it took a while until she finally calmed down and fell asleep. Only then did Sandor allow himself to scoop up his wife into his arms and to hold her close, and even if he didn't care for the Little Bird's flock her unlimited, bone-rattling grief reminded him of the day he had lost his sister, and a tear stole down his cheek. Luckily, Ser Addam didn't mock him for his sentimental outburst, so later, the Hound held him in even higher esteem.

Meanwhile, he asked for a cart, and then, he took Sansa home. From now on he'd be even more responsible for her than he had been before, now that the rest of her family was gone. Seven hells, why did the friendlier brothers have to perish while the monstrous family spawn prevailed? If there were any gods they could all go and bugger themselves with a hot poker. Or with lightening of green wildfire, whatever the gods were prone to when it came to torturing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was insecure with regard to how to approach the Red Wedding. It's such a difficult topic. The next chapter is likely to be a Sansa POV.


	30. Chapter 30

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Slowly, Sansa awoke to a new day. It was wonderfully warm in bed. Cosy. Her body was very heavy; her brain felt as if it had been wrapped in fur.

And there was a tall body next to her. Sansa breathed in, recognised Sandor and snuggled up against him. Strong arms enveloped her. Mhhhhmmm, that was good. With her nose she nuzzled his chest hair and took in his scent once more. Big, male hands combed through her hair and trailed over her scalp, massaging her lightly and causing her to purr like a cat.

Oooh yes, that was good!

Deep down inside of her, a weird, heavy feeling was starting to bloom. Sansa tried to push it aside, not wanting to face reality just yet, and kissed her husband's skin.

“So my pretty Little Bird is awake?” she heard Sandor murmur further up.

Somehow, his voice was strange. Calm, but so serious.

The heavy feeling in her core was intensifying and closing in on her consciousness. Sansa buried her face against her husband's chest and tried in vain to fall asleep again. So she opened her eyes, looked up and straight into two grey irises. Dark grey irises. Full of sorrow.

And then memory struck her with the force of a ram.

Mother. Robb.

On instinct, she gripped Sandor's sides as if she wanted to hold and to scratch him at the same time, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. In reaction to this her husband pressed her even closer.

“They're... They're...”

That was all Sansa managed to utter.

“I know, Little Bird. I'm so sorry.”

Her throat produced little bubbling noises, which slowly increased until she was sobbing and weeping. Sansa felt as if a part of her was gone, as if someone had ripped her heart out of her ribcage and left her to die. Her mind blurred, and she lost control over herself. She couldn't think any more, there was just all-encompassing pain.

The only thing she still knew was Sandor's embrace, and she held onto his presence as if it were a lifeboat. And perhaps it was.

 

The next days were a swirl of dark colours and grief. Sansa was fed milk of the poppy twice, and thus, she either slept or wept. If not for her husband's pressure she wouldn't have eaten a single bite.

Twice, Ser Addam visited them at home, because she was so shattered that she couldn't come to his solar, as she was expected to do. Sandor was allowed a free day, but then, he had to go back to work, of course, and he left Tonyen with her.

On the third day, Sandor ordered a cart and dragged her thus to the headquarters of the Gold Cloaks. She didn't care for that duty at all, but her husband was adamant.

“You're still alive, Sansa, so I won't let you bury yourself in the house. You need some fresh air and different walls and voices around you.”

At first, she was reluctant, but like so often Sandor proved to be right. The city life and the bustling at the barracks were distracting. Sansa even found it in her to visit her horse and to give her mare an apple while Sandor was checking on a jealous Stranger.

In the main building Ser Addam was awaiting them, and he smiled warmly.

“Lady Sansa, it's good to see you up and about again! If you want you can stay here while I'm sifting through my papers and watch your husband from the window. It would do you good not to be alone.”

Her eyes were still red-rimmed, and she was shedding some tears again, so she blew her nose and mumbled: “That is a very generous offer, Ser Addam. You're so very kind to us.”

The knight only shook his head and answered: “It's the least and the only decent thing I can offer. Clegane, I hope it's all right for you, too. Or do you fear you might lose the sparring fights when your wife is watching you?”

“The seven hells I'll do! I could kill each one of those sods in my sleep!” Sandor barked and stomped away.

 

Ser Addam chuckled while watching the Hound strutting into the training yard: “Please don't take it as an insult, Lady Sansa, but your husband's reactions are so predictable. Tell him something that might rise his hackles, and he'll fight to prove his worth.”

For the first time since Sansa had learned of the Red Wedding she was able to produce a small smile, and she said: “I'll make sure to remember your strategy in the future so I can wheedle him into doing for me whatever I want.”

“Oh,” Ser Addam answered, “that won't be necessary. He's already so smitten with you he'd be doing anything for you already. You know, I've seen him down in the yard. From one moment to the next, he's staring into thin air now and again, grinning like a lovesick fool. The guards thought at first they could creep up from behind and defeat him in those situations, only they didn't expect that his reflexes are so good that he doesn't need conscious thinking to swat any of them. And now, they're even more afraid of him than they were in the first place.”

Sansa's eyes widened noticeably, and she blushed.

“Ah! So I see your feelings are mutual. Well, I must say that the Hound is a lucky bastard then, if he was able to win your heart.”

Ser Addam's words were warm, but there was an awkward undertone in it, which caused Sansa's look to wander from her husband down in the yard to the knight next to her at the window, who was still gazing downwards.

Shyly, Sansa asked: “I know it's none of my business... but are you unhappy in love?”

Lord Marbrand seemed to feel more than a little uncomfortable now, and while still staring outside, he answered softly: “You're a sensitive woman, there's no denying that. Well. The heart is an unreliable thing; it feels what it wants, no matter whether the object of one's affection is within reach or not. Yet, I value friendship just as highly, and I'd never do anything to mar other people's happiness, you must believe that.”

Sansa nodded in understanding.

“I'm convinced of that, Ser Addam. You're an honourable man. A good man. And I really hope that you'll find a measure of happiness, too, one day.”

Since the man had offered her so much consolation over the past days, she gave his hand a little squeeze.

He winced, drew back and suggested: “Well, Lady Sansa, the day is getting warmer and sunnier than expected. Mayhaps you'd like to go downstairs to the training yard and follow the exercises and the sparring from close up.”

Sansa was a little confused that she should be sent away all of a sudden, and she realised that with her thoughtless words she had indeed touched a tender spot.

Politely, she replied: “Why, yes, of course, Ser Addam. And please accept my apology, if I have hurt you. It wasn't my intention.”

The copper-haired knight smiled sadly.

“It's none of your fault, Lady Sansa. Really, it isn't.”

 

Sansa was still a little bemused while she was walking down to the training yard, and she felt also sad that she wasn't the only one around with a heavy heart. Poor Lord Marbrand!

Sansa approached the outer margin of the training yard and attracted one or two admiring catcalls. Luckily for the men in question Sandor didn't notice the lewd sounds as he was in the middle of a fight with another guard, otherwise the malefactors would surely have been beaten to mush by the Hound.

He was splendid to behold in his armour – not because of his shiny weapons or any intricate ornaments on his tabard, no. It was the effectiveness of his movements. His purposeful determination. His well-measured power.

Sansa started to ask herself how she had been able to overlook her husband's – admittedly very rugged – attractiveness in the past. Why had she only ever seen his scars and his anger? There was so much more to Sandor Clegane.

For a moment, she thought of her moon blood. She had not conceived. True, there had only been one coupling, so it hadn't been sure that she'd be with child; even she knew as much. Only why had Sandor not bedded her again? It wasn't as if he didn't seem to find her attractive any more, not at all. Yes, of course, she was mourning now, and she was grateful that he didn't press her to do her duty in this situation – but before? Ser Addam had even gone as far as to say her husband was “smitten” with her. Was that true? But then his behaviour made even less sense!

Apart from that – what did she feel for Sandor herself? She cared for him. Deeply so. So much that during the last two nights she had slept with her head on his chest to be sure she could hear his heartbeat and to be sure he was still alive. At the same time, it wasn't as if she didn't see his flaws. He was a harsh and a complicated man – but that didn't deter her. Not any more.

Counting it all together it could only mean...

“I'm in love with him!” she realised. And even if her heart was still raw from her loss she could smile once more.

 

Crash! Sandor's sparring partner landed on the earth with a vulgar curse. There was some clapping from above.

“You've done well, Garsden! You managed to hold your ground against Clegane for five minutes. That's better than everyone else. You can consider yourself a good fighter now!” Ser Addam was calling out of his window.

The fighter, Garsden, beamed with pride. Sandor clapped him on the back and voiced his own approval.

Sansa looked towards the solar again – and to her utter shock it was suddenly as if a bandage was removed from her eyes, and she could see clearly now. She gasped.

When Ser Addam had been talking about his feelings earlier on... he had been talking about her!

Oh sweet Maiden! What should she do now?

But then she remembered that Lord Marbrand had pointed out that he'd never try to undermine her relationship with Sandor, and that he appreciated them both as friends, too. Sansa sighed. She was at a loss of what to think and how to react. She only knew that her heart belonged to her husband – actually, she was even more sure of it now.

“Little Bird, everything all right?” Sandor shouted at her from the training yard.

“Can you come over for just a second?” Sansa retorted.

Her husband advanced, and she beckoned him even closer. When he was there she whispered into his good ear: “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Hmph? Well, yes, sure.”

“Fine. Do you know what I've just found out?”

“What is it Sansa?”

Her voice was so small then that it was barely intelligible: “I love you.”

Sandor stiffened, and he stared at her.

“What!? Is... is that true?”

Sansa nodded shyly.

Her husband ran his hand through his hair.

“Fuck me sideways. I can't even... Seven hells!”

This reaction was not quite the one she had expected, and she got anxious.

“Sandor, I didn't want to put a strain on you by telling you about my feelings, but...”

“Strain!? Bugger that! Come here wife!”

Whoosh! And from one moment to the next he had grabbed her by the middle, hurling her around like a doll and laughing so freely and with such exuberant joy that Sansa could barely recognise her husband's grating voice any more. A moment later, she was laughing, too, and she realised that her heart had not been cut out after all; in fact, it was still very much alive, judging by its unruly rhythm.

After another mirthful moment, Sandor put her down again and gave her a kiss square on his mouth, not caring one whit about any possible witnesses. Next, he murmured: “All right, now I've got to go back to work, my love. And what about you? Go and see, if you can find Tonyen, or go back to the horses and cuddle them until I can take over again – but don't you dare spoil Stranger. He still has to be fierce in battle.”

He winked at her and Sansa giggled.

Then, he turned on his heels and bellowed at his men: “Right, you bloody bastards! Stop gaping like some inbred sheep! We'll go on with the training. Who wants to be the next one? – Seven hells, why are you looking at me as if you're about to piss yourselves?”

Sansa tried to stifle a fit of laughter, and she succeeded for a minute or two, but when she had reached the stables she was consumed by guffaws of laughter until she was holding her sides, and while some puzzled horses and an equally bewildered Tonyen were looking at her the sounds of merriment washed the worst part of her grief away, and she came to understand that she was starting to heal.


	31. Chapter 31

 

Together with her husband's squire Sansa finally arrived back home while Sandor was still on duty, and she felt livelier than she had done for days.

“We need to get some bread from the bakery, some cheese, some honey, some butter, some milk, some fruit, and we need to take the dirty clothes to the laundry, Tonyen. I only wish we could finally find a good servant who is willing to stay”, Sansa sighed.

The lad at her side nodded and commented: “It is the combination that is the problem, my lady. Either the applicants are not good or they don't want to stay.”

It was true. There had been two men and a woman who had looked dubious, to say the least, and two more interested women who had run away as soon as they had laid eyes on Sandor's scarred features. It was depressing.

“We should ask Shane in the Black Boot. He knows the world and his brother. Perhaps he'll be able to help us find a reliable servant.”

 

Together, they left the house again about half an hour later. In the street, they stumbled upon Lyssa from next door. The elderly woman pattered: “Oh, my dear! How very good to see you up and about again! Will you come with me to the sandstone chapel? I'm sure you'll want to pray for your family. Gods, I was so upset when I heard of how they disgraced the bodies!”

Sansa stiffened and ground out: “WHAT!?”

Lyssa's eyes widened, she inclined her head and asked: “But don't you know that they cut your mother's throat, chopped off your brother's head, sewed his wolf's head into place and paraded him around?”

Sansa breathed in and out. In and out. The self-control she had cultivated in Joffrey's presence snapped into place once more.

Then, she said calmly: “You're doing this to spy on my reaction, aren't you? And you don't care whether you're hurting me with your careless revelations. I see that my husband has always been right about you. You're as disgusting as you are pathetic. And if or when Sandor finds out that and in which manner you told me of the details of my family's death he'll be intent on killing you. And I'm not threatening you now. Neither am I exaggerating. I'm just making a very realistic statement, because I know how deadly my husband can be. I've seen him kill people on my behalf before. Just how could you be so incredibly stupid with your egoistic curiosity, Lyssa? I pity you.”

The widow was gaping like a codfish now, but Sansa couldn't care less. She only spoke to Tonyen: “I'm back in the house. Please run the errands we've talked about on your own. I think I'll retreat now.”

The boy looked up at her and wanted to know: “Are you sure I can leave you alone?”

“Yes.”

When Sansa arrived in her bedroom she dropped onto the bed and started to sob. The wounds that had started to heal had been torn open again, and cruelly so. What tormented her as well was that Sandor had surely known more about the Red Wedding and had kept the information from her. She could imagine that he had done so, because she had already been beyond herself just by knowing his mother and brother were dead. Sansa could even understand him – she would have done the same in his place. Still, she felt so very raw on the inside!

After a while, she was exhausted from all the weeping, and she fell asleep.

 

“Sansa! Little Bird! Oh, my love!”

Sansa's eyes popped open on hearing and recognising the raspy voice above her. Warm lips were pressed onto hers, and she put her arms around Sandor's neck immediately. When recent memories set in she tensed and even clung to him desperately. Her husband hugged her back and uttered some soothing noises and surprisingly soft words. Obviously, he had already learned about her distress. Tonyen was likely to have informed him.

Without thinking much, Sansa gave herself over to Sandor's consolations – and her husband was generous with caresses he had not even known before their marriage. Ah, there was no denying that he was a fast learner. Sansa inhaled his scent and basked in his warmth. It was what she needed now. His embrace was like a cocoon, and she felt safe.

After quite a while – when she had calmed down – Sandor addressed her: “I'm so sorry you had to find it out in this way. What a bloody mess! I've already tried to single out that thrice-damned widow, but it looks like she's gone. Bah. I hope the Stranger will bugger her with a hot poker. Anyway. And do you know what we'll do now, Little Bird?”

“What?”

Sansa kissed him again, and that triggered off a very smug and self-complacent grin.

“You'll clean your face, and then, we'll go to the Black Boot and get some invigorating food and drink.”

Sansa prodded his hooked nose lightly with her index finger and stated with a sigh: “I'm sure you'll focus on the drink.”

Sandor rubbed his nose against hers and rumbled lowly: “I'll focus on being at your side. That's more important than anything else.”

Sansa was still so very sad, but when she heard her husband's words a small smile crept onto her lips. What she didn't foresee was that she'd be bedded the second time that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	32. Chapter 32

 

(32)

 

 

The next morning, Sansa woke up and felt as if her head were an anvil and a smith was hammering on her skull. Somehow, she made it to the chamber pot in the corner behind the screen where the washing stand was as well – and puked. Afterwards, she grabbed a piece of cloth, poured some water into the bowl on the washstand and cleaned her face.

 

“Little Bird?” she heard a slurred voice from the bed.

 

“It's all right. Already starting to feel better again. I'm off to the privy to clean the chamber pot.”

 

In the past some servant would have cleaned up her mess, but now, Sansa needed to do these things herself, of course.

 

“You sure, love? Shit, that bloody booze at the inn really managed to knock us out. Can't even remember how we made it back here.”

 

Sandor still sounded drowsy and seemed to have a hangover like herself. It was a good thing that it was her husband's occasional day off from work, or he would have been late for his job.

 

 

 

Clumsily putting on a dressing gown, clutching the smelly chamber pot and mumbling something under her breath Sansa stumbled downstairs and went into the walled back garden where the privy was. What made things worse was that she didn't just have a headache – she felt a little sore between her legs, too. Weird. Sansa had assumed her moon blood had come to an end. Had it come back for some reason? Or had she hurt herself last night, drunk as she had been?

 

 

 

It had all started when Sansa had downed the first strong ale and her grief about the end of her family had been numbed by the alcohol. She had ordered a second one, much to Sandor's astonishment, but her husband had had a keg of wine himself, and he had not reprimanded her. A little later, a musician had started to play a fiddle, which had been a starting signal for general bouts of merriment. Sansa and Sandor had been so tipsy by then that they had chimed in to the tavern songs (though “chiming” was not the right word to describe her husband's bawling singing, come to think of it).

 

“Well, be that as it may”, Sansa thought with a smile that was rather sour, due to her pounding head.

 

 

 

Inside the shed with the privy she put the dressing gown aside, lifted her thin shift and inspected herself a little.

 

Hm. As far as she could tell by just loking at her... womanhood everything was all r...

 

A picture flashed in her brain. Of her waking up in the darkness, still totally drunk, lying on the side and feeling very stretched down there.

 

Sandor. He had been there. With her.

 

Sansa remembered that it had been a bit uncomfortable, but at the same time, she had been so heavy from sleep and drinking that her muscles had been relaxed, and neither had she panicked. Contradictory as it was, it had also felt incredibly good to have him so close once more.

 

Sandor had been very drunk himself, and that had probably been the reason why he had been lazy and slow with his movements – which was a good thing, actually, since her body still had to adapt to his... proportions. It had given her the time to enjoy his embrace as well. His hands had been playing in her hair, and she remembered that she had nibbled on his collar bone, both of them humming from contentment. In contrast to their strained first bedding this had been, well, cuddling with different measures, if you wanted to put it like that.

 

Sansa blushed and smiled, trying to dig up some more memories from the alcohol-induced haziness in her mind. What she gleaned from her missing recollection of the ending of their intimate interlude was that she had fallen asleep again during their lovemaking. Gods! How embarrassing! Would Sandor reproach her with not doing her duty as a wife well?

 

 

 

Hesitantly, she traipsed back to their bedroom.

 

Her husband was sitting on the edge of their bed, bare-chested and rubbing his face with his hands to revive himself. Next, he looked at her, bleary-eyed and obviously feeling uncomfortable.

 

“Sansa?” he asked awkwardly.

 

“Yes? What is it?”

 

Her own voice sounded a little higher than usual and thus a bit nervous.

 

Sandor coughed and seemed to be interested in the dirt under his fingernails.

 

“Erm. Sansa. I'm not sure, if I remember correctly, or if it was just a dream – did we fuck last night?”

 

For a moment, Sansa gaped. And then she started to laugh, to moan and to hold her had alternately. My, that blunt question! How typical it was of her husband! What was more – from the way it looked she wasn't the only one having a problem to remember all the details of their coupling.

 

“What's so bloody funny, Little Bird? Was I such a joke?” her husband's indignant voice rasped.

 

“No! Oh no, Sandor,” Sansa answered hurriedly while wiping away a tear. “I was just so drunk that I can't remember everything clearly either, but it was sweet, as far as I can recollect.”

 

Sandor looked out of the window.

 

“Damn, better for you that you don't know every little bit. I think... I think I passed out before we could finish.”

 

Now, Sansa was laughing again, sat down on her husband's lap and retorted: “So did I! Gods, we're a weird pair of lovebirds, aren't we?”

 

On hearing that, Sandor relaxed, held up his index finger and corrected her with a smirk: “A lovebird and a dog, my dearest wife.”

 

Sansa put her arms around her husband's neck, giggled and whispered daringly: “Perhaps the dog plans to revive the recent experiences a little later?”

 

Sandor moaned: “Seven hells! My wife is getting wanton! Have mercy on a man with a hangover!”

 

 

 

They were both still uttering sounds of levity and pained noises alike when there was a knock on the door.

 

“Tonyen?” Sandor called.

 

From the other side of the door the lad's voice could be heard: “Yes, it's me. There's a messenger downstairs. From the Red Keep.”

 

The spouses stiffened.

 

“And from whom?” Sandor demanded to know.

 

His squire sounded rather upset when he answered: “It's an order from the king. He wants to see Lady Sansa.”

 

“No!” Sansa breathed and paled.

 

“Shit!” the Hound swore. “I had already expected and feared as much. This is about your dead brother. And about your claim to the north, Little Bird.”

 

Hot and cold shivers were running up and down her spine.

 

She called out: “Tell the messenger we'll dress and hasten to the Red Keep to meet His Grace.”

 

And with a low, shaking voice she asked her husband: “You don't think Joffrey wants to serve me my brother's head on a plate?”

 

Sandor glowered and answered: “Oh, he wants to, of that I'm convinced. But don't be afraid: in this short timespan the remains of your brother couldn't be transported here. So at least you will be spared from this kind of torture. What I do fear is what he might come up with instead.”

 

“Sandor, there is one thing I ask of you: don't come with me when I meet him. You'd only end up killing him, and that would be our end, too. And I want you to be alive. I want US to be alive. I want us to have a long, happy marriage. You see?”

 

Her husband hung his head and growled: “I'll never forgive myself how I could stand by and watch the others beat you in the past.”

 

Sansa kissed him on the forehead and emphasised: “You did what was necessary for both of us to stay alive. That was the most important thing at that time. Please: promise me to stay calm, no matter what. And I promise you that I'll try to be strong. And now let's don our clothes, we've got to make haste.”

 

Sandor followed her with his eyes as she rushed to the chest with her new dresses, and he stated: “Bugger me! You don't have to try to be strong – you're strong already! You've been strong all these months, ever since they took your wolf from you, and later, when they killed your father. But you don't need an extra wolf, because you're strong in your very own way, only I was too blind to see it at first. I only saw a spoilt, high-born girl.”

 

Sansa was deeply touched, allowed herself to think briefly of poor, dead Lady; next, she smiled sadly and answered: “I may not need an extra wolf today, but I do need an extra Hound. And now hurry up! And please help me with my lacing and my buttons; I think my hands are starting to tremble because of the looming meeting with my former fiancé.”

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

 

Sansa had expected Joffrey would be grinning wickedly, or would taunt and and make cruel jokes. Yet, when she was lead into the king's solar no such behaviour could be detected. Of course, it wasn't as if Joffrey was suddenly a friendly young man. Far from it.

“Sansa Clegane,” he stated flatly, and he gazed at her with hard eyes.

Sansa curtsied deeply and bowed.

“Rise,” came the clipped order.

Joffrey was still scrutinizing her. Sansa was relieved that she was wearing her new gown. It fitted her well and didn't cause her cleavage to nearly pop out of her dress; the high neckline added to the effect of chastity. Moreover, the yellow and black colours of her husband's sigil didn't fit her light complexion well; especially the black hairnet and bonnet that covered her head quelled the effect of her auburn hair and caused her to look sickly. White powder on her cheeks and blue eye shadow, which she usually didn't use, added to the impression of frailty.

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa breathed, her heart hammering from fear like a drum.

“I was told you were getting along with the Hound, but from the way you look my spies were exaggerating a lot. Anyway, personally, I don't care if and how fast you wither, but you still have to be alive and to fulfil some kind of role for a while, my grandfather tells me. As you will have heard the traitor who was your brother has been annihilated. As the only surviving person from the Stark family you are the heir now, and Winterfell is yours. So is the position as the Warden of the North. The original plan was to reward Roose Bolton with that title, but most unfortunately he fell victim to some kind of betrayal. And the northern lords are still trying to wage war against the realm, even though there is not the tiniest chance that they might win. Only yesterday I received a message reeking of piss via raven, telling me that the north wouldn't forget. Pfft. I told my grandfather he should leave and swat the remaining traitors, but he said that there was an easier solution to the problem. You are supposed to be installed as Warden of the North, and you have to write letters to the Umbers and the other northern lords. Allegedly, some of those hairy bastards will listen to you and give up fighting and return to their snowed-in earth holes. Well. Perhaps worth a try, for all I care. And the nearing winter can do the rest. Apart from that, the title will be useless for you, as you will still be confined to the Red Keep and the capital. What do you say?”

Sansa curtsied again, her mask of politeness firm in place, and answered: “Your Grace, if I can help to appease the realm and to save lives I'll certainly do so. Your Grace is very wise to end this conflict in this way.”

“Of course I'm wise!” Joffrey snapped. “And now: Here are ink and feather and parchment. Ser Meryn will supervise the writing process and see to it that you won't write anything treacherous, and I'll read the letters myself later on. One wrong word, and I'll have your head. Understood?”

Sansa inclined her head and answered meekly: “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Hopefully so. I guess my words were clear enough even for someone as dumb as you. And now I'm off. I've got more important royal duties to perform.”

Joffrey stood up from the ornate chair at his desk. Sansa curtsied one last time, and Joffrey passed her without paying any more attention to her.

The king opened the door and called: “Ser Meryn! You'll stay in my solar with Lady Clegane and watch her while she's writing some letters. When she's finished you'll take the papers and hand them to me. I'm off in the Throne Room, and Ser Balon will guard me there.”

“As His Grace commands.”

When disgusting, glowering Ser Meryn Trant entered the king's solar Sansa felt sick and remembered how the man's mailed fist had felt in her stomach.

“Fist... fist...,” Sansa mused – and suddenly remembered Sandor's anecdote of how the man had bitten into his hand, because he had been dreaming of a piece of meat. Due to these reminiscences she managed to relax a tiny little bit. She took another chair – she absolutely wouldn't sit down where the cushions were still warm from Joffrey's backside – and set to work. Her hands were still trembling. Sansa sighed. This would take a while, she surmised. If everything went well.

 

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment, I picture Joffrey as being under powerful grandpa's thumb. Thus, he'd - grudgingly - do a few of those things Tywin is telling him to do and within this slight change of balances he can't torture Sansa physically quite as easily as he used to do. I wonder if it came across in the chapter - I intend to allude to it again in the next one.


	34. Chapter 34

 

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Only his lifelong experience and training as a guard prevented Sandor from running to and fro like the Lions he had seen at Casterly Rock in their confinements. His intestines were bubbling in turmoil. What was going on in the royal wing? He had resolved to wait in the corridor that led to the king's quarters, not right in front of the little shit's rooms – he knew all too well that otherwise, he might well have already lost what little patience he possessed and gone berserk.

When he heard Joffrey's voice from afar and saw Meryn Trant enter the solar Sandor's heart sank to his boots. Seven hells, no! No! Not him again! He was just about to try to run to the door himself and to wrench it open... when suddenly, the boy king appeared. And he didn't sport the abominable wicked grin he usually wore when Sansa was being beaten. The mere fact that he was leaving her in his solar without watching on meant that there was a possibility that the Little Bird wasn't being tortured beyond the usual royal level of pestering the subjects. Sandor breathed in and out and forced himself to relax inwardly.

He bowed as it was necessary.

“Your Grace.”

When the king reached him, Joffrey stopped and sneered: “Hound! Don't imagine falsely that the traitorous wolf's death and your wife's new position will vest any rights in either of you! It's a completely hollow title, understood?”

Sandor was confused.

“Actually, I don't understand what you are talking about, Your Grace.”

Joffrey waved his hand as if he wanted to chase off an annoying fly and spat: “Ah, your wolf-bitch will tell you. By the way – have you gotten her with child?”

Sandor stiffened and answered flatly: “No, Your Grace.”

“Pffft,” the boy king harrumphed. “So the overhasty marriage and the loss of your rank as my sworn shield were all for nothing!”

Later, Sandor would swear he was missing a piece of tongue for biting it and not telling the inbred bugger that it had been worth everything.

Instead, he pointed out: “As a leading member of the City Guard I'm still keeping you safe, albeit from afar, Your Grace.”

Venomously, Joffrey hissed: “That's not where you're needed most! I need people who carry out my orders. I'm the king! I don't need a Hand who thinks he can boss me around, just because he happens to be my grandfather and because my father was indebted to him.”

Sandor feared that Joffrey might try to reinstall him as his personal guard now, so he hastened to answer: “You'll be married soon, Your Grace. Play off your Hand against your wife. They'll neutralise each other, and you'll be the one who's giving the orders. It's not me you need. You need your cleverness and brain.”

These words mollified Joffrey; he was already picturing himself as especially smart and was probably even telling himself it was his own idea to follow this kind of policy. Sandor snorted inwardly. The bloody oaf. He was even easier to manipulate than late fat Robert.

While the boy was turning around and leaving him with the comment that he expected the Hound and his bitch to be present in the sept during the impending royal wedding Sandor nurtured various fantasies of kingslaying – and most of them involved a red-hot poker. To be honest, he had long come to understand Jaime Lannister's motivation for murdering mad King Aerys much better...

 

 

Time oozed by, and Sansa didn't return. Seven hells, what was going on in the king's solar? What had Joffrey meant when he had been talking about a new position? And what about this “hollow rank”? The Hound didn't dare to ponder what it could mean and preferred to snarl at the walls around him. After a while his curiosity got the better of him, and he inched closer to the closed door. Not a single sound could be heard from inside.

Sandor noticed that a guard – some Fred... no, Francis, he corrected himself – was positioned between the solar and the king's bedroom. Damn. He remembered the bloke darkly: the young man didn't belong to the King's Guard, but ever since he had been chosen to do his duty in the royal wing from time to time he was a bumptious bullfrog (and with his goggle eyes and various warts he also looked like one).

“Clegane! Keep your distance from the king's chambers. You're not his sworn shield any more and not permitted to enter the solar of your own accord. If you don't retreat I'll have to report to the king about your behaviour – or to raise an alarm.”

These words caused Sandor to snort and to bark back at the guard: “Bugger that! In case I want to enter a room I do so, and someone like you will find himself arse down first on his own spear. Understood?”

“You dare to threaten me? I'm guarding the king's wing! Your threats are high treason!”

“Pah, what a dolt you are that you can't tell a simple statement from a threat. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I don't have need of any threats. Either I do something right away, or I leave it be. You'd be dead already, if my intentions had been serious – though I could still change my mind, given your pathetic behaviour. Bah, really, you couldn't guard your own shit, if need be! You've never been on a battlefield and have never cleaved a man in half like I have done so often I've lost count. What did you do to get into this position? Blow the Mockingbird's cock?”

The guard was really up in arms now and was frothing at the mouth while telling him he'd inform the king about the Hound's insolent behaviour.

Sandor only rasped back: “Oh yes, please do so! And don't leave out a single vulgar word! The king likes my candid imagery, you know? He'll be very entertained and appreciate having a good laugh – before having your tongue ripped out. That's what he likes to do to bleating, idiotic subjects.”

 

Just at that moment, the door of the solar opened, and a pallid Sansa emerged slowly.

At once, Sandor turned his back on the ranting guard and pulled his wife closer.

“Little Bird! Are you all right? I've been waiting for so long.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sansa reassured him, took his hand and pulled him down the corridor. “What was going on? Your shouting could be heard inside, and I was getting frightened.”

“Oh, just an arrogant young fop of a guard who took himself too seriously. And it only happened because I was getting worried about YOU. What took you so long inside?”

Sansa's mask of politeness was still in place, and she was very stiff and erect, but the Hound had known his wife long and well enough to know that there was utter bedlam in her heart now.

“Let's talk about it when we're outside,” the Little Bird chirped, and Sandor nodded understandingly.

 

Down in an inner yard Sansa leaned closer and explained to him in a hushed voice what Joffrey had decreed.

“Wait, wait, Little Bird – I'm not getting soft in my burned head, am I? He really made you Warden of the North!?”

“To be honest – I think it's Lord Tywin's doing. Joffrey behaved and spoke a little differently and more or less admitted as much.”

Sandor mulled things over for a moment and submitted: “Well, it may sound as if they don't have all their bats in the belfry – actually, Joffrey really doesn't –, but the Old Lion knows what he's doing. The more I think about it, the more it all turns out to be a clever move for him. You see, it's always good to have your enemies under your nose where you can control them easily. For example, you're far more tractable than Roose Bolton would have ever been as a Warden in the North. The fact that he betrayed your brother shows it well enough. No wonder he met an untimely death. And there is another thing – after the demise of their King of the North the remaining lords have fallen out with each other. Some will simply want peace and accept you being the Warden of the North – however weak your position may be – while others will want to strive for power themselves; and as long as the northern lords are busy with each other they won't pose a threat to Joffrey's rule.”

Sansa sighed and Sandor squeezed her shoulder assuringly.

“Don't despair, Little Bird,” he tried to comfort her. “You wrote the letters as requested, didn't you? Hm, the way I see it you had no other choice.”

 

Suddenly, the tiniest smile appeared on Sansa's lips.

With a hint of self-congratulation in her voice she murmured: “Sandor, there was something I could convey to the northern lords. And the songs you think so little of were the measure of choice here, believe it or not. Do you know “The Golden Summer Sun-rays”?”

“Sure. With “gold” in the title it's a real Lannister song and popular in the west.”

Sansa chuckled: “Aaah, but do you know that we've got the same tune in the north, but with a different text?”

Sandor was surprised: “No, what does the song run like?”

His wife revealed: “The title is “The Silver Winter Moonlight”. The text is about the fact that even on the darkest winter day the moon can still provide some light so that there is still hope; and there is the promise that even after a Long Night there will always be a spring and eventually, life will sprout again. I only wrote down the notes of the melody, and whoever reads it will think I sent them a warning alike to “The Rains of Castamere”. In fact, however, the northern lords will get the message that they shall manage and maintain their forces and prepare themselves for the upcoming winter – and to unite and to pool their opposition again in the next spring.”

These details left the Hound rather worried, and he shook his head, deep in thought.

After a while, he commented: “Let's hope the Lannisters are as ignorant as me with regard to the song versions – and that your northern lords are cleverer... and willing to accept a woman's recommendation, Stark heir or not. After all, you're carrying my family name now, which isn't exactly the worthiest one in the Seven Kingdoms.”

On hearing that, Sansa blushed and admitted: “Don't take it personally, my love, but I guessed as much and just signed the letter with “Lady Sansa, Warden of the North”. No second name.”

The Hound shook his head, though in astonishment, not in anger and rumbled: “Tsk, tsk, who would have thought that? The Little Bird engaging in tactics and conspiracies.”

His wife looked sad nevertheless.

“Sandor, I hate to be like this. To think and to act like this. If only... oh well. I'm starting to understand father. He didn't strive to become Warden of the North, he didn't want to be the king's Hand, and yet, he accepted these tasks, because he thought he could keep his family and the north safe.”

The Hound snorted back: “Nothing is ever safe.”

Sansa nodded and agreed: “I know. I learned this lesson the hard way. Just like you.”

Sandor would have liked to kiss her for answer, but since they were still in the political cesspool that the Red Keep was he refrained from this open sign of affection. Instead, he just squeezed Sansa's shoulder once more. Sansa smiled again and he realised his wife had understood him without words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this story in 2013, so I wish you all a good start into the new year! :-)


	35. Chapter 35

 

Sandor was nervous for days that someone from the Red Keep might break into their house to arrest Sansa for high treason. So anxious was he that he snapped at the guards of the City Watch, at Ser Addam, at Tonyen – even at Sansa. And in the place of the frightened Little Bird he had known before their wedding his wife was far more... animated now.

Once, she got even angry and commented his behaviour with: “Holy seven, you're more keyed up than I was in our wedding night! Wedding morning. Argh, whatever! What I mean is: get a grip on yourself!”

Her angry tone reminded Sandor of her ferocious hellion of a sister. Well, Sansa would never get as far as that, but she was self-confident enough now to reprimand him and tell him he should stop behaving like a headless rooster.

Yet, the Hound couldn't help himself. And the insecurity with regard to the letters she had written to the northern lords was only one aspect that bothered him. There were more disturbing points on his mind. For example, he was pondering the many differences between them.

Sansa's social status was one problem. She had always been too high above him – and now, she was even Warden of the North (whatever that meant these days). Sure, he was content with the social rank he had reached, given that his grandfather had started off as a kennel master at the Rock. Neither did he have to belittle his prowess as a warrior.

But.

Sansa was so much better than him, not only socially, no, in every possible way, body and soul. She deserved someone who matched her... and he himself didn't match her in any way. He was even so much older than her. True, many husbands were older than their wives, but those were arranged marriages. (In fact – what type of marriage was theirs? Some far more awkward form, he guessed. Panic-induced marriage? Sexual aftershock marriage?)

And yet, Sansa had told him that she loved him. Now, the first question was: how could she? That was an absolute mystery to him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to believe that yes, she did have positive feelings for him, miracle as it was, but she was likely too young to really know what love was. She had always had her romantic notions from songs and fairy tales, combined with the emotional stirrings of a youngster slowly developing into an adult. He remembered how she had adored Joffrey and Ser Loras at first, drooling like her dead direwolf at the sight of a crisp roast. Sansa's feelings for him were deeper, more solid. He didn't doubt that – after all, he had been her first man in bed. And the feelings she had for him were already more than he could have ever hoped for, and he was incredibly grateful for them.

But love? What was love? He didn't have a clue himself, didn't even know what to call his own feelings for her. What he was sure of, however, was that no-one had ever been so dear to him like his Little Bird. He felt he couldn't live without her any more, that he needed her far more than he'd ever need the best skin of Dornish Red. To be honest, he was afraid. Afraid that Sansa's adolescent amorousness for him might wane, like it happened with so many other youngsters, that she might fall for a bloody Florian after all.

And there was one more thing: he didn't know how far he could go with her in bed. He didn't want to press her into doing something she wasn't really ready for. Their first time had been horrible enough, and their rather unsuccessful second tumble had likely been nothing to awaken her interest in intimacies. At least she had liked the way he had caressed her breasts, so perhaps there was a chance for them – but she'd be the one to set the pace when... or if it came to that.

It was obvious that Sansa didn't mind physical closeness, which was a good sign. Her kisses were frequent and passionate, she liked to embrace him, and at night, she always huddled close to him. Which wasn't always as romantic as love stories had it, truth be told. His wife suffered from regular nightmares, so she often accidentally kicked him or hit him with her elbow, and to wake from a horrified whine that was uttered directly next to his ear wasn't a nice process either.

Often, he had to wake her up, too, to hold her close and to console her until she calmed down – and each time his calloused fingers grazed the scars on her back he wanted to cut Joffrey into tiny little pieces and to serve the meat to the dogs in the kennels of the Red Keep.

What was embarrassing for Sandor himself was that he suffered from nightmares as well. He had always done so, he knew. Usually, he dreamed of fire, but also of his brother killing off his family one by one. He sometimes dreamed of the people he had killed, for example of the little butcher boy that had been Lady Arya's friend. Of late, he was haunted be visions of Sansa being mauled and killed in different ways. In the past, at times he had thought his nightmares to be a just fee he had to pay for the sinister acts in his life; at other times, he had numbed himself with wine to escape the mental images.

Things were different now. He avoided befuddlement after their drunk lovemaking as he didn't want to make such a fool of himself again. Soon enough, Sansa noticed his nightmares – and when she did it was suddenly her who consoled him.

The consequences of it all was that Sandor felt more vulnerable – yet strangely enough also stronger, sharper of mind, more focused. It was weird and he didn't understand it, but of one thing he was convinced: He didn't want to change his current situation for anything else in his life.

 

With regard to their domestic situation things became decidedly better. They had some more furniture, and Shane at the “Black Boots Inn” had acted as an agent and established a contact to an old woman named Elly who was looking for work. She was short-sighted, which was good with regard to his facial burns, and she was desperate to get a job, because she was poor as she had lost her family in the course of the War of the Five Kings. At the same time, she seemed reliable enough.

His squire Tonyen was feeling more at home, too. The lad had found some friends amongst the shoemakers' apprentices. Sandor still remembered all too well how the boy had appeared in the Red Keep one day and had beseeched him to take him in as squire. Tonyen had been the son of a landless hedge knight, his mother had already been dead for years, and then, his father had been killed in a skirmish with the Mountain Clans. Knowing that he had no family to support him and that no real knight would take him in he had turned to Sandor.

The Hound had not really needed a squire, but the boy had not run away from his scars. Moreover, it had been convenient to have someone around who could help him with the armour. Yet, Tonyen had always remained in the background, had been unobtrusive, quiet, a shadow. Of late, however, he had started to turn into – an individual. A character. Even a likeable one. It was weird. Sandor had never talked about private thoughts to the boy and vice versa, but now... Suddenly, they were discussing things: the sparring at work, Stranger, stories from the inn, incidents that happened in the quarter. Tonyen was still calm, but he often proved to be an intelligent observer. For example, he told him of the widow Lyssa having moved into another street, right next to the Sandstone chapel; or of their other neighbour, Jaspy, who had started to meet other troublemakers in a low dive called “The Charred Dice”, which was situated close to the “Street of Silk”.

Sandor thought how much his life had changed over the last weeks – and how it was still changing. For the time being, he liked the majority of the changes, in spite of some worrying developments, he realised. If only he could believe in his good fortune! He wasn't accustomed to being lucky and didn't expect the good times to last. And he had the very distinct and dark premonition that it might be the upcoming king's wedding which might bring about a basic change in the Game of Thrones. A change that could also affect – and threaten – his and Sansa's lives...


	36. Chapter 36

 

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Sandor had been incredibly unnerving of late, Sansa thought. Ever since her episode in the Red Keep he was extremely touchy, impatient and bossy, all “bloody” here and “seven hells” there. The prospect of Joffrey's marriage made things even worse. That he was doing double shifts at the City Watch's headquarters didn't help to improve his mood at all. As could be expected, the great event meant lots of extra work for the guards of the capital. More drills, more tours through the city and whatnot else.

King's Landing was buzzing with manifold preparations for the festivities, its inhabitants like like excited ants. Lord Tywin had ordered food and drink to be provided for the normal people on the specific day. Obviously, the Old Lion had enough common sense to appease the people – in contrast to the king, who'd have likely ignored his subjects' needs like usual. At any rate, the outcome of this policy was that the City Watch had to supervise everything. The workload would reach its peak around the wedding ceremony in Baelor's Sept, there was no doubt about that.

And the worst of all was that as much as Sansa dreaded it she'd have to attend the wedding alone, because of Sandor being on duty. Ser Addam Marbrand had at least made it possible that her husband would order the troops around the sept, so that he was close nearby. The Commander of the City Watch himself was supposed to secure the procession between the Red Keep and the sept, and later the area around the fortress; Sandor had told her as much.

 

Finally, it was the dawn of the king's wedding day. Sansa and Sandor rose very early. Her husband had taken a bath the day before in the barracks of the City Watch, and she herself would go to a public bath house further down the street. She and Elly had other things to do rather than to prepare a hot bath. Besides, the widow was too old to carry the water buckets.

The servant was spindly, nearly toothless and her white hair was very thin.

“Too many children and too much hunger in the past,” had been the clipped explanation for the weak physical status.

Even so, Sansa was very grateful that Elly was now a member of her household. The woman had seen and experienced a lot, and her mind was as sharp as her humour, and she was always willing to give Sansa some piece of advice when required, for example how to make lemon oil. Elly took care of the herbs in the back garden, she was good at cooking, ironed the clothes when Tonyen had fetched them from the laundry, and changed the linen – in short: finally, Sansa had someone around her who did most of those housework tasks that had been deemed below a Stark, and which she had never been taught back in Winterfell.

 

Now, Elly was laying out Sansa's gown (the modest one in Clegane colours again), smallclothes, shoes and accessories. Sandor gave Sansa a quick kiss, his mind already on duty, and left the house with a warm bread in his fist, which was filled with melted parsley butter, cheese, onion and smoked bacon cubes and shredded mushrooms. Elly had baked the little delicacies early in the morning since they were as tasty as practical and had become their favourite breakfast within days. Tonyen, who was still growing, had no problems to eat three of the filled bread pockets, and Sansa nibbled listlessly on one herself while she was heading for the bath house.

It wasn't as if she was hungry. Actually, she felt even a bit sick, because she had to go to the place where her father had been beheaded, and because she had to attend the wedding ceremony of the person who had caused her such misery, and who was responsible for the death of her family. No, she didn't feel like eating – but she knew she'd need her strength today.

 

When she arrived at the Sept of Baelor two hours later the throng in the streets was already so thick that she barely made it to the building on time. Everyone was chatting excitedly, and the hustle and bustle in the streets, the calls and little bells and tambourines, the many people's smells, the odours of fresh bread and ale, which would be distributed in every corner after the ceremony, the fishy stench from the Blackwater – the wild mix made Sansa's knees feel wobbly.

Luckily, she wasn't expected to stand in the front ranks of the wedding party, and most courtiers present ignored her. She didn't mind. Not at all. As long as she wasn't being mistreated and as long as she didn't have to watch another beheading she'd be fine. In the distance, she could spot Cersei, Lord Tyrion on a high stool, Lord Lannister with his bushy sideburns and Tommen. None of them were close enough to get into contact with her, thank the heavens.

From one moment to the next, however, there was a massive body clad in fine silks at her side. A moment later she noticed a whiff of rotten flowers. Sansa felt her hair stand on end.

Lord Varys.

“Aaah, my dearest Lady Clegane!” the eunuch chimed. “So you're here to bear witness to this marvellous, outstanding event as well. And how very refined you're looking today, if I may say so! Splendid indeed! That necklace of yours – it's black hematite, isn't it? Very fitting with regard to the colours of your sigil, I must admit.”

“Thank you for your compliment, Lord Varys,” Sansa muttered back, even though her heart wasn't in it at all.

“Talking of the Clegane sigil,” the Master of the Whispers went on, “I've heard that you're very content to wear your husband's colours these days, and that your wedded life is marked by mutual affection – unlike the arranged marriages of so many other couples. So I would like to congratulate you to your good luck.”

The eunuch knew she and Sandor were in love.

Sansa went cold to the bone.

“Ah, on this day we should rather talk about the happiness of the king's marriage”, she tried to distract the man.

Dutifully, Lord Varys intoned: “Indeed, indeed, my dear Lady Clegane. Let's pray to the seven that his marriage will be a long and happy one, and blessed with many healthy children, especially sons. By the way, I wish the same to you, of course. Unfortunately, my little birds have told me that so far there are no such good news from your side to be reported.”

Sansa was feeling close to vomiting now. What was he aiming at?

“Not yet. But we haven't been married long.”

Lord Varys nodded understandingly: “Of course. And besides, it's probably better not to be with child in these, how shall I put it, rather unstable times.”

“Unstable?” Sansa asked, a little confused. “I was under the impression that the king's reign was becoming much safer, now that other... aspirants don't pose a danger any more.”

“Ah,” Lord Varys made and inclined his head, “you're quite right in this respect, but a king is never absolutely safe, isn't he? There are always some dissatisfied people in the realm, and “Winter is Coming”, as the Stark family used to say. I wonder whether you've heard of any such discontent in the new place where you live?”

Sansa started to understand the eunuch's underlying message: “Provide information, or I'll make sure that your marriage is neither blessed nor long nor happy.”

Simple as that. How Sansa abhorred the viper's nest that the capital was!

She smiled at the man and replied gently: “Nothing specific. Call it intuition, but perhaps you should keep an eye on the developments with regard to the Faith. There seem to be new, strong religious undercurrents in the city. And speaking of religion – here comes the High Septon! And there are the King and Lady Margaery!”

If it hadn't been for Joffrey's presence Sansa would have been truly relieved to be able to fall silent..

 

The ceremony began. The king was clad in the finest golden brocade, and Margaery Tyrell was wearing equally precious fabrics, Myrish lace and finest silk, a thousand sweet-water pearls stitched onto her gown in rose shapes, and amethysts adorned her shining, brown hair. Sansa had seen it when the couple had passed them on entering, but now, they were too far away to see those details.

They didn't matter to her anyway. The less she had to see of Joffrey, the better.

To her surprise the new High Septon, who had followed the one who had been murdered during the bread riots in King's Landing a short while ago, wasn't as unctuous as his fat predecessor. His movements and words were a bit more economical and concise.

A bent, old man with a wispy beard.

Hmmm...

Sansa pondered this a little and remembered one of Sandor's raspy comments about the “wrinkled dodderer, High Septon by the buggering Imp's grace”. No, her husband would never find anything good in the Faith. Or in religion at all.

Suddenly, Sansa wished herself back to the silence of the Godswood in Winterfell with its Heart Tree. She could remember her father hone his sword there, deep in thought. That had been Eddard Stark's place. Not the one in front of the Sept of Baelor.

And where was her own one?

In the past, she would have chirped: “At my husband's side.” Without thinking. Now, things were more complicated. She did believe she belonged at Sandor's side – yet, at the same time, she didn't feel she could ever feel truly at home in King's Landing, even though this was the location where her husband was bound to. No, things weren't as easy as she had always believed them to be in her childhood.

Further down the aisle, King Joffrey put his cloak around Lady Margaery's shoulders and gave her a kiss.

Sansa snorted inwardly, deeply grateful that it wasn't her who was the bride. She thought of Sandor's kisses instead, and that finally elicited a smile that also reached her eyes.


	37. Chapter 37

 

After the events at the sept Sansa had to follow the other courtiers to the Red Keep. Before the banquet King Joffrey and his Bride would receive their guests' wedding gifts in the Throne Room. Sansa was dismayed when Joffrey cut Lord Tyrion's present – a precious book – to pieces. Sansa knew she shouldn't be surprised about this behaviour, but her heart was still bleeding when she saw the wonderful volume being treated in such a way.

 

Finally, it was her turn to step up to the throne and to present hers and Sandor's gift. Sandor had chosen it. It was a Valyrian dagger, with intricate patterns on the grip, which was made of exotic dark, gleaming wood from the Summer Isles. The sheath was made of very old, but also very robust dragon leather, an extremely rare material, and little polished, iridescent fragments of dragon scales were sewn onto it. The thing at had cost a fortune, but no less than that was expected by the king.

On seeing the present, Joffrey wrinkled his nose and rattled: “What is that? A dagger coming from a traitorous person? Do you mean to threaten me?”

Sansa's eyes widened.

“No! Oh no, Your Grace. This dagger is a symbol. It is a rarity – like your Grace. And my husband says... if you want to it's a symbol of the marriage bed as well.”

Gingerly, Sansa pulled the dagger partly out of the sheath and pushed it back. Her heart was beating a wild thud-thud-thud, and she was praying to the Seven internally. Her face flushed a deep red.

Joffrey cocked his eyebrow...

… and then, he threw back his had and laughed.

“Hahaha, oh my, that's a good one from the Hound. What a pity he couldn't say that himself. But he seems to have trained you well, from what I can see.”

The lewd tone of the king's voice made Sansa's skin crawl, and the sounds of levity from the other guests caused her to feel even more embarrassed. Yet, at the same time she was very relieved. Joffrey had accepted the present, and now, he was waving her already away so that the next one in line could hand over his wedding gift.

 

Half an hour later, the banquet was finally declared open. Sansa ate a little pie filled with wild boar's meat and had a glass of Arbor gold, but not more. When she spotted Ser Addam, who was oscillating the hall, she flitted over to him immediately.

“Ser Addam! How good to see a friendly face.”

“Lady Sansa, I'm pleased to meet you, too,” the copper-haired knight smiled back at her warmly.

“Yes, but you're still on duty and don't have any time, have you? Well, I feel sick tonight, I must confess. All the marvellous impressions from the wedding... I just wanted to tell you that I intend to return home now. The king has received my gift, and there is nothing left to do for me here.”

Lord Marbrand nodded in understanding.

“Wait, I'll get you a guard; he'll accompany you out to where Sandor's squire must be waiting for you to see you home safely.”

“Thanks a lot, Ser Addam.”

 

When Sansa left the Red Keep with Tonyen at her side and when she saw all the happy people in the streets, who were celebrating and drinking to the king's well-being for once, she felt as if a huge stone was being rolled off her heart. Suddenly, she was happy as well and thought she could enjoy the night. Even her hunger was coming back!

Chatting animatedly, she and the squire moved back to their quarter. At home, she and Tonyen and Elly had some lemon cake, which the elder servant had prepared in the meantime, and they shared some good, strong ale. They japed and were relaxed.

 

But an hour later, the bells of the septs started to boom ceaselessly, the laughter in the streets turned into nervous calls and shrieks, and people were running to and fro, many of them likely getting trampled.

Tonyen paled and exclaimed: “Gods! Something horrible must have happened! Lady Sansa, you must hide in the cellar like your husband told you to do in a case emergency. Come!”

Sansa's midriff cramped, but she followed the squire and climbed down the ladder into the cellar. All the while, her head was spinning and she was dying from fear for Sandor's safety.

What on earth had happened? Was her husband all right?


	38. Chapter 38

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Sandor was so tired when he finally made it home that he thought he might fall against the next wall and sink down, unconscious. The capital had been a pandemonium and dozens of citizens had died. Finally, the recent hard drills of the City Guard had at least paid off; explosive as the mood had become a revolt would have been possible, but could be averted.

 

He himself on Stranger and his men with their mounts – or without – had been everywhere across town, appeasing people where it was possible and arresting them where it had been necessary. Several guards and inhabitants had been wounded, two scoundrels in Flea Bottom had also been killed in self-defence by his men. He himself had struck down a third individual: a dirty, stinking ogre of a man from the gutter of the capital's slum, and in spite of the attacker's massive body, the Hound had nearly hacked him in half with his sword. Thankfully, it had caused the knave's minions to scatter like squeaking rats.

 

All in all, his work had been effective and the Guard had taken over control again, but he had had no sleep for nearly 48 hours, and now, he was on his last legs. The only thing that kept him awake was his worry about Sansa whether she was safe and sound.

 

No sooner had he opened the front door of his house when he heard scurrying feet, and a moment later, the Little Bird flew at him and clung to him desperately.

 

She sobbed: “Sandor! Oh Sandor! You're back! You're back! Gods, I was going mad, because I feared something might have happened to you!”

 

And then, she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him all over again, wildly and unrelentingly. If the Hound had already been dizzy to begin with he was close to fainting now. Relief washed over him at seeing his wife so alive – only his brain couldn't quite cope with the fact that he was being cuddled and kissed after a dangerous mission. Something like that had never happened before.

 

“Sandor, are you all right?” his wife chirped.

 

“Just dog tired and a few scratches, nothing serious. And you're not hurt?”

 

“No, no! And is it true what Tonyen has found out? That Cersei is dead and that Tyrion has been imprisoned and been charged with murdering his sister?”

 

Sandor nodded darkly.

 

“I fear it's true, Little Bird. The king is... bloody rampant at the moment. No wonder, she was his mother after all. So you weren't there any more when it happened during the banquet?”

 

“I went home early and didn't see a thing.”

 

“How very good for you. Do you have any witnesses who can swear an oath you left soon after the wedding? I mean... just in case.”

 

Sansa's eyes widened at the implications, but she confirmed: “Oh yes, there are Ser Addam and the man who accompanied me out of the Red Keep. And Tonyen, of yourse. Do you think the king might try to blame me with treason again?”

 

Sandor shrugged and yawned: “If it's like you say... no. And I've never been so happy not to live in the castle any more. It's worse than a beehive at the moment; actually, people are like angry hornets there at the moment. I had a short talk with Ser Adddam and he looked like his own ghost, I can tell you. But now I need to sleep, if you don't mind. Washing when I've rested. Not enough strength left.”

 

“Oh, yes, how stupid of me!” Sansa called, put his heavy arm on her shoulder and tried to support him, which was incredibly sweet, given that she wasn't strong enough to really carry him.

 

Sandor yawned again, and somehow, they made it up the stairs. Tonyen had seemingly popped out of thin air, and he started to work on the fastenings of his armour. Piece after piece, the heavy metal fell away with a clank and a screech. Sandor finally sat down on the bed – naked, dirty and smelly, but he couldn't care less. His mind was already swimming; with a dark thud! his body fell backwards onto the soft mattress; he felt Sansa spread a blanket over him lovingly and give him a melting kiss... and then nothing more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did the thing. I killed off Cersei. Joffrey would have made an interesting carcass, too, sure, but I still kind of "need" him for the story.


	39. Chapter 39

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Sandor was still snoring, even after twelve hours, and Sansa let him be. She had slept a bit herself, and now, she was sitting at his bedside and was looking at her husband while he was slumbering. The signs of the stress he had been through were still clearly visible. A big smudge was on his good cheek and a drop of dried blood on his temple.

 

And yet, he looked peaceful and relaxed now, his exhaustion having caused him to sleep like a stone. Sansa realised – not for the first time – how fond she had grown of him. The mere thought that he could have died in the uproar following Cersei's death made her sick. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him again to ascertain herself in this way that he was alive and well! Yet, she knew that she had to let him regain his vitality; it would be of no use to disturb him with her selfish needs.

 

However, she swore to herself that she would show him her love once he'd be awake again. The fact that Sandor was maybe dirty, but first of all naked under the sheets caused her a weird physical yearning.

 

“I'd like to lie with him again,” Sansa had to admit to herself and blushed. She felt a bit wanton, but luckily, Sandor wasn't a formal man who would chide her for her passion. And so far, they had shared the marriage bed so rarely. At least that was what Sansa thought, though she was insecure. How often was this done normally? If she was honest she didn't have a clue. She only knew that she was beginning to wish for more, to find out more about the matters dealings men and women. Surely, it could be better than it had been the first two times, couldn't it? Even if Sansa didn't remember every detail of their second time there were some rather sweet echoes of Sandor's absolute closeness; that alone had already been so much better than their forced first time.

 

Sansa sighed. Her fingers itched. She wanted to have a peek under the blanket so badly. Over the last weeks, she had had repeated glimpses of her husband's naked body, and they had made her curious. It was embarrassing, but she wanted to see him in detail. Wanted to touch him him. After all, his private parts seemed to be as sensitive as her womanhood.

 

One night, when Sandor had thought her asleep, he had rubbed himself, had finally grunted a stifled “Sansa”... and had fallen asleep right afterwards. Only – she had been wide awake and had just been too shy to disturb him. She had asked herself why he was touching his body like this when he could have her instead – she was his wife after all! After a while, she had come to the conclusion that he must have been considerate, that he had simply wanted to let her sleep. And now, she told herself she'd let him sleep as well.

 

The problem was that her skin was still tingling, her heart beating too fast, and between her legs there was this pounding traction which she always sensed when her body was... reacting physically to her husband.

 

Restless as Sansa was she finally walked over to the adjoining smaller bedroom and lay down. She needed to breathe and opened the laces of her bodice. Memories of the outrageous touches she had seen in the Red Keep bubbled up in her mind – and somehow, her hands were suddenly on her own body.

 

She blushed, but still cupped her breasts gingerly. Gods, her septa would be so ashamed of her!

 

The next moment, she deduced: “Well, if Septa Mordane would be ashamed it's likely that Sandor would encourage me to go on. He's so much against religious reputability.”

 

Emboldened, she went on with her explorations. At first, she was very hesitant, but then, her hand slipped between her legs. The internal vibrations intensified. It felt good. Her fingers moved here and there, inspecting her skin and finding out about the ridges and valleys and layers, about where there was hair and where there was not. She flinched when she found some wetness, but after having ensured that she hadn't accidentally made water on herself, she dared to poke a little further.

 

A moment later, Sansa found the opening where Sandor had been. So she mimicked him with her hand as best she could.

 

Her eyes grew wide.

 

Oh.

 

Oh. Gods.

 

This felt nice.

 

Her breathing hitched.

 

Her mouth opened slightly.

 

When she had gotten accustomed a little to the new sensations she hummed contentedly. Still, her body told her it wanted and needed more. She tried to rub herself a bit like Sandor, and it was thrilling, but since her body was so different from his in that respect (and she hadn't seen any details during that past incident anyway) she didn't know how to do it properly, how to make it even better. She asked herself, if it was because her hand wasn't Sandor.

 

After a while, she got frustrated as her body was screaming and begging for more without her being able to provide the sensation it needed. Thus, she resolved to slip under Sandor's cover to see whether he was able and willing to help her out. She was craving for knowledge. And for him.

 

 

 

The problem was that she shouldn't get as far as that. Mere moments later, it happened.

 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

 

Heavy knocks on the front door!

 

“What's going on?” Sansa asked herself in shock.

 

Hurriedly, she rearranged her clothes and washed her hands while she could already hear Tonyen or Elly open the door downstairs. Next, there was a male voice, and Sansa recognised it well enough. After some heartbeats, the squire's jumping steps were heard on the staircase, and then, the lad knocked on her door.

 

“Lady Sansa, it's Ser Addam Marbrand. And it's not a private visit.”

 

Sansa's hand flew to her mouth.

 

She opened the door and asked: “Did he say why he's here? Is my husband still asleep?”

 

“No, I'm sorry. – And everything quiet in there, as you will realise. Normally, he's got a lighter sleep.”

 

Tonyen nodded at the bedroom door.

 

Sansa commented darkly: “Yes, I know. Well, let's see what's going on. I'll meet Ser Addam first. Perhaps I can already help him and we don't need to disturb my husband. Who knows?”

 


	40. Chapter 40

 

Ser Addam was sitting at the kitchen table, but stood up as soon as he saw her. He had bloodshot eyes and obviously slept even less than Sandor; he looked like a dead man walking. Instantly, Sansa felt sorry for him, and she rushed towards the man, trying to press him back onto the chair.

“Ser Addam! Gods, if I may say so: you look like a ghost! Please take a seat! How can I help you?”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa. No wonder I look so bad. I only had three hours of sleep over the last two and a half days. Have you ever been so tired that you simply want to weep? Well, anyway. Where's Sandor?”

“Still abed. Shall I wake him up?”

The Commander of the City Guard, however, waved his hand and yawned: “Ah, let's grant him a few more minutes of rest. He'll have to take over soon, since I'm on my last legs.”

Without thinking twice Sansa offered: “You can sleep here, if you want to. We have a second bedroom. – Elly! Elly, please put fresh linens on the bed in the small bedroom.”

“That's kind of you, Lady Sansa,” Ser Addam mumbled. “To be honest, I'm not sure, if I would have made it back to my own lodgings. But before I can go to sleep we have to talk about a few things. Did you hear any details about Queen Cersei's death?”

“It's rumoured that she was poisoned,” Sansa related.

The copper-haired man nodded.

“Indeed she was. I saw it happen during the wedding banquet. Suddenly, she clutched her throat, gasping for air, slowly turning blue in the face and chocking to death. I can tell you, it wasn't a nice sight. King Joffrey was yelling and screeching orders to help her, but it was already too late. Lord Tywin had the doors barred at once so that no-one could leave the room, and then, we had to search every guest for poison. We have reasons to believe that it was Queen Cersei's own hairnet that had contained the substance that killed her, though we don't know yet how she came to consume it.”

Sansa's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“Oh, that's so horrible!” she gasped.

As much as she had detested Cersei her death still unsettled her. And for good reason, as she found out a moment later.

“Indeed, Lady Sansa. Later, when Lord Tywin, the king and the small council convened for a first discussion, King Joffrey was deeply upset and suddenly came up with the idea... well...”

“Which idea, Ser Addam?”

The knight in front of her looked to the earth, embarrassed.

“You see... he tried to lay the blame on you and believed you to be the traitor who had murdered his mother.”

All blood drained from Sansa's face.

“No! No, please, don't say it's true!”

Ser Addam hastened to appease her again: “Luckily, I could tell him that you never came close to Queen Cersei that day, that you had left after the first course of the banquet anyway, and that there were witnesses for this. Me first of all. King Joffrey didn't want to believe me, and things could have taken a bad turn, if not for Lord Tywin. Even in the face of this calamity Lord Lannister was cold-blooded enough not to adhere to completely abstruse accusations, and he made his grandson see the truth in my words.”

A little sob rose from Sansa's throat.

“Oh, Ser Addam, you probably saved my life with your brave statement! Thank you so much!”

Sansa rose and embraced the man in sheer gratefulness, not caring whether this was the ladylike thing to do. To her surprise, the strong, confident knight went slack and pressed his cheek against her shoulder for a moment. But only a few heartbeats later, he stiffened again and rose, freeing himself.

“I... I apologise, Lady Sansa. I intended no trespass. Fuck, I'm too tired to keep myself under control.”

“No, Ser Addam, no, please don't feel sorry, there's no need to.”

The man combed with his hand through his hair and didn't know what to say, so Sansa asked: “How did the talk in the small council go on?”

“Oh... yes. Well. Suddenly, Joffrey came up with another absurd alternative. He declared his uncle, Lord Tyrion, to be the culprit. This time, Lord Tywin raised no objections, and the Imp was apprehended at once and put under lock and key.”

Sansa had no love for the Lannisters, but Lord Tyrion had not been the worst of them, and he was too intelligent a man to murder his sister at his nephew's wedding, so she was affected by the fact that another person would suffer from Joffrey's wrathful injustice and derangement. She shook her head in disgust.

“What do you think will happen next, Ser Addam?” she wanted to know.

“Frankly speaking, I'm not thinking anything at the moment, because my brain is mush, Lady Sansa, but the last thing I heard was King Joffrey calling for his uncle's beheading. And Lord Tywin hates his youngest son, it is well-known. So I wouldn't be surprised, if...”

There was a meaningful pause.

Next, Sansa stated: “Well, whatever will happen, we'll have to see to it that your brain will be able to work properly again. Come, please follow me upstairs. Let's see, if the bed has been prepared for you.”

 

Slowly, Ser Addam heaved himself upwards behind her.

As it turned out, Elly had been quick and effective, and everything had been prepared. Sansa blushed when she remembered what she had done in that bed shortly before. The knight on her heels was luckily too tired to notice her embarrassment. He fell onto the mattress like a stone and was asleep even in his light armour, uncomfortable as that surely had to be. So Sansa called for Tonyen and told him to at least try to remove Ser Addam's boots and the protective metal ring around his neck.

 

Afterwards, she tiptoed into the big bedroom and to where Sandor was slumbering.

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexy times ahead. ;-)

 

Without making a noise she slipped under the covers, snuggled up against her husband's large body and allowed herself to roam her hands over his skin. For a moment, she wrinkled her nose, because he was still smelly, but that could be mended later.

 

“Has the Little Bird come to warm herself in the nest?” a drowsy voice mumbled into her ear.

 

She smiled and whispered back daringly: “I think... I think the Little Bird is already... warm.”

 

Bleary-eyed Sandor looked at her, and a grin spread on his face.

 

“Is that so? Hmhm, let's see then, if that's true.”

 

A male hand travelled up her thighs under her skirt, found its way into her smallclothes and made certain shameless enquiries. Sansa bit her lips to stifle a sound – and pressed herself against his calloused fingers.

 

While Sandor's own body started to come awake rapidly, he uttered a contented little growl: “As I see it “warm” isn't nearly enough to cover it. The Dog is tempted to taste the juicy Little Bird.”

 

Sansa's voice was breathy when she whispered back: “I'd like that. Only please be quiet. We've got a guest next door. Ser Addam came here, and he was so tired that I offered him the guest room. I'll explain later.”

 

Her husband stiffened – or rather most of him did, whereas in contrast the previously stiff part was softening at once.

 

“What!? He's here? Bloody seven hells! What happened? Is everything all right? I must get to the headquarters!”

 

“No! No, please don't! Not at once! It's all right. Please stay for a short while at least!” Sansa begged and pressed herself against him.

 

 

 

That gained her the reaction she had wanted.

 

Sandor kissed her. Slowly, but all the more intensely. Their tongues played, and she uttered the tiniest sigh.

 

Under the blanket, Sandor's hands opened the laces of her bodice and freed her breasts.

 

“Shit, I'm the luckiest bastard on earth,” he murmured when he looked her exposed skin – and didn't waste any time, but started to kiss and to nibble and to suck her there.

 

Sansa pressed her head into the cushions, bit her lip and clawed with her hands into the mattress. How she was able to remain silent under these circumstances was a mystery to her. It was as if bolts of lightening were shooting up and down her spine!

 

Further down, Sandor's hands were pulling down her smallclothes, thus causing her heart to beat like a ram against her ribcage – and the sensation was echoed fervently in her most private parts. Again, her husband looked at the flesh that was being exposed, and his eyes were so dark from desire that she had to swallow hard.

 

“Seven hells, I've never seen so much goodness,” Sandor rasped under his breath. “Do you know what you're doing to me, Little Bird? Do you?”

 

He took her hand and wrapped it around his shaft. It twitched merrily. Sansa blushed the deepest shade of red, but she didn't flinch. And somehow, it was funny to see that the body part in her hand seemed to be blushing, too, when her fingers traced a vein she found there. Sandor uttered a little grunt.

 

“Damn, Sansa, this is too good. Please... please...”

 

 

 

Oh, she understood him all too well. Willingly, she embraced her husband and pulled him on top of her. There was a bit of nervousness left – but that was soon forgotten. This time, it was easier for him to enter her. For a moment, she felt a bit too tight and uncomfortable, but her body was already adapting. And then, she looked up into Sandor's eyes. His expression was one of absolute wonder. As if he couldn't grasp what he was feeling. For Sansa,it was the same. There was still a bit of embarrassment, but her heart was already starting to surge in sheer joy.

 

“Are you all right, Little Bird?” Sandor wanted to know. His voice was shaking.

 

Sansa smiled and breathed with a teasing edge: “I think... I think the Little Bird is taking off to fly.”

 

The next instant, her husband started to beam like he had never done before, bowed and kissed her while starting to make love to her. He chose swift, tiny grinding movements, which were completely different to the ones they had shared the first time, back in in the Red Keep; and somehow, Sandor's curly pubic hair and his hot skin brushed against an extremely sensitive spot of hers constantly in this way. It drove her mad. It was as if waves of stars were crashing over her and as if she was being swept off. Gods! This was incredible!

 

Sandor kept kissing her all the time, even if his size surely made it uncomfortable for him in this position, because he had to bend his back. Sansa's hands were fisting his dark, long hair, and the further they got, the more often he sucked her little moans into his mouth. This was pure bliss! Further down, her husband's grinding movements became more erratic – and suddenly, he grunted again, pulled out, and Sansa could see his seed spurt out of his manhood. What...!? But what...!?

 

Sansa didn't know what to feel, what to think, she felt empty where she had been so close to something beautiful before.

 

But then, Sandor was already rolling around towards her again, slid with his head between her legs and admitted, still panting: “I've never done this before, Sansa, but I've seen it and heard how it's basically done. Just tell me, if you like it and when I'm doing something right.”

 

Without further ado, he latched his mouth onto the place where he had filled her before. Sansa yelped. At first, the pressure was too intense. Then, he rather tickled her more than anything else. But finally...

 

Sansa forgot her name and everything she had ever known; she burst apart so violently that her body rocketed upwards, and spasms consumed her whole body.

 

 

 

When she started to relax again Sandor moved up her body and embraced her warmly. Suddenly, she found herself weeping into his chest hair.

 

At once, her husband was worried and inquired, if she was all right.

 

With a little sob, Sansa declared: “I've never been so happy. I love you so much!”

 

Sandor's calloused fingers started to comb through her auburn hair, and she realised that Sandor's eyes were wet as well.

 

“I could say the same, Little Bird,” he whispered. “I could say the same.”

 

After a minute or two, he had regained his control and sighed: “You know I've got to go to the headquarters now, don't you? Damn, I wish I could stay here and enjoy you a little more. Or to be honest – I wish I never had to leave this bed again. Bloody real life.”

 

Sansa nuzzled his dark chest her with her nose while feeling strangely heavy and sated. She knew he was right, so she didn't object, even if she was agreeing with him.

 

She chuckled: “Somebody once told me that life isn't a song.”

 

Sandor grinned back at her then and replied: “Oh, I've just learned that sometimes it is. You sang quite prettily for me, even if you tried to curb the volume. And now... I really have to get up.”

 

He growled frustratedly and rose.

 

On seeing his naked frame, Sansa blushed once more.

 

“What, Little Bird? You've just had the whole of this ugly body and you bloody liked it. Why are you behaving like a shy maiden again?” he teased her.

 

Sansa giggled and answered: “Oh, I'm just incapable to believe that this huge and very manly body is all mine.”

 

Sandor shot her a look as if she had completely lost her mind, then marched over to the washstand and started to clean himself, all the while mumbling something about “the weird brains of women”.

 

Sansa only hid her face under the blanket and grinned like a fool.

 


	42. Chapter 42

 

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Sevenbleedinghellssevenbleedinghellssevenbleedinghells!

Sandor thought he was walking on clouds while he was ploughing through the streets of King's Landing on his long legs. He still couldn't believe it. His memories were so vivid. So colourful. So incredibly, incredibly sweet.

It was true that he had been with a few whores over the years, but no encounter with a harlot had prepared him for the lovemaking with Sansa. While the process itself had basically been the same... it had still been as different from his past quick, shallow tumbles as night and day. Sansa had wanted him, welcomed him. Her embraces and kisses – it had been mind-blowing. Lust and love combined were so much better than anything he had experienced before!

Sandor grinned until the burned part of his mouth twitched. He saw passers-by flinch from him like usual, but today, he didn't care. Sansa wouldn't shy away from him. Not any more.

 

A little later, the Hound arrived at the headquarters of the City Guards. There, he finally had to refocus on his tasks at hand. There was still a lot to do, and it fell to him to carry out Ser Addam's duties, now that the man was asleep in his house. He had to check the state of the troops, had to decide on new plans for the numerous shifts in town, had to hear reports from his men and to scribble down his own reports. Writing was nothing he liked; his hands were too rough for quills, and besides, he was no man of elegant words.

Still, he did what he could. The Goldcloaks were tired after everything that had happened over the previous days. Fortunately, the situation in the city had calmed down.

 

However, the same could not be said about the latest events at the Red Keep. Joffrey had not been idle and had had Ser Ilyn Payne whet his sword. And now, the Imp's head was adorning the castle battlements. The Halfman had had no trial. Much as Sandor had despised Tyrion Lannister – this was despicable.

Well, the little shit on the Iron Throne had already proved he liked bloody spectacles when he had ordered the execution of Sansa's father. Now, he was going further: he had shown that he didn't even care whether the victim in question belonged to his family. According to the most up-to-date gossip Joffrey had acted rashly, without Lord Tywin's consent, and had simply given the order to dispose of the Imp while the Old Lion had been asleep.

Sandor asked himself, if it had been this Tyrell bitch, Margaery, who had influenced her bridegroom to act in this way. It was likely. The Roses from Highgarden were striving for more and more power, and perhaps Margaery had wanted to peg out her claim. Which was a foolishness, at least in this way. Such a provocation wouldn't go unpunished by the Warden of the West, who absolutely knew how to pick up a gauntlet.

And now that Jaime Lannister had become the man's only living child more tactical changes were in the air. And the stench of the Game of Thrones was even worse than King's Landing's normal rotten odour.

“Better not breathe in too deeply these days,” the Hound told himself.

Things would surely become even more dramatic in the future, Sandor assumed. Lord Tywin wasn't a man you could ignore. Joffrey giving orders without the Hand's consent was probably worse for Lord Lannister than the killing of the son he had always hated. The good question was only what the Lion would do next to rein in his grandson.

Another mystery was how much and how soon the eunuch had known about the Imp's death. Sandor had the definite feeling that Varys had been informed of the king's order before even Ser Ilyn had learned he was supposed to nick off the Halfman's head – and the Master of the Whispers had done nothing to save Tyrion. This spoke volumes.

Taking all the dirty likelihoods into consideration, the Hound was happy he had no immediate task at court at the moment. Ser Addam had already done what needed to be done, and Sandor didn't have the wish to meet Joffrey. Not at all.

 

Another notable point was that in the meantime, the High Septon had been murdered, too. It looked as if he had been asphyxiated with a cushion. While Sandor wasn't overly sorry for the representative of the Faith he still organised the investigation of the case and went to see the gnarled man's body himself.

It turned out quickly that whoever had carried out the deed had been a seasoned assassin as there were barely no traces left. And the few hints that might have been there had been destroyed by all the pandemonium of the septons and septas swarming around like headless chickens.

Sandor only gnashed his teeth and thought that the City Guard needed a reform for the investigation of murder cases – they needed specialists for different fields: for the sites of crimes, for different kinds of poisons, for secret inquiries, perhaps even for the murderer's motivation and mind. As an experienced soldier Sandor knew quite a bit about these things, but he couldn't do all these tasks himself. Neither could Ser Addam.

Interestingly enough, the Red Keep didn't press the matter of the dead High Septon, so the Hound had a pretty good idea of who had orchestrated the killing.

When Lord Marbrand arrived some twelve hours later and took over again, Sandor was quite worn out and only too happy to go home. He felt he could do with some warm food, some hours of sleep, and a warm Little Bird in his arms.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for the update...

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The following weeks were very eventful, as one could expect. First of all, Jaime Lannister turned up, alive but having lost his sword hand. Sansa opened her mouth wide in shock when Ser Addam told her the news one morning at the headquarters. She still remembered vividly how well Ser Jaime had fought at the tourney of the Hand. Though she continued to have many negative feelings for the Lannister name it made her sad to hear that such an extraordinary talent had been snuffed out with one stroke.  
Allegedly, the infamous Kingslayer was so devastated now that in some wine sinks bets were made whether he'd die any time soon as well. Not being able any more to keep his king safe, handicapped as he was, Joffrey released him from the King's Guard. Lord Tywin was said to be content about this development as he had his eldest son back as his heir for Casterly Rock now. Rumors started to spread wide and low like wildfire that Ser Jaime would have to marry soon.  
“The bloody hens pluming themselves at the Red Keep now, is that the way of it?” Sandor commented on on this development.

Soon enough, Sansa was able to lay eyes on Jaime Lannister herself. One late morning, he was visiting his old friend Ser Addam and watching Sandor drill his Gold Cloaks in the training pit while she was present as well.  
At once, she approached the golden-haired man and greeted him politely.  
“Lady Sansa,” he answered and pressed a little peck on the back of her hand; yet, Sansa realised at once that he was absent-minded.  
His eyes were so empty that it sent chills down her spine. He looked so forlorn that his formerly handsome face was worse to look at than his stump.  
“I've learned that you've married our most frightening Hound, Lady Sansa. How are you faring?” he inquired.  
Sansa blushed and immediately remembered that she and Sandor had started to have regular passionate encounters these days. They both could barely keep their hands and mouths off each other, and she could only thank the Mother and the Crone that Sandor was absolutely enthralled about her increasing wantonness.  
“I'm faring very well, Ser Jaime, thank you for asking. My husband is a very loyal man, as you must already know, and he makes me very happy.”  
The Kingslayer looked mildly sceptical, which wasn't much of a reaction, but at least his eyes didn't look quite as dead for a moment. However, he didn't pry on the topic any further.  
At that moment, Ser Addam stated: “The Hound is also doing a good job here, as you can see. The Gold Cloaks have become twice as effective in half the time one should expect for the task at hand. I'm grateful to have him here. I wonder if he could train you to use your left hand for sword fighting.”  
If Ser Jaime had looked sceptical before, he was bitter and derisive now: “Pah! Those glorious times are over. I can barely put on my breeches with my left hand, and my arm is as weak as the one of a delicate maiden. Forget it!”  
His pessimistic stance somehow upset Sansa – and before she knew what she was saying she spoke up: “Your arm weak like a woman's? All right, I take you up on that. I've never fought in my life, you know, but I guess there's always a time to learn something new; and if I can do it, you can do it, too. – Sandor!”

She waved her hand, and now, everyone was looking at her.  
Her husband stepped closer, sweat streaming down his temples and dust in his lank hair.  
“What is it, Little Bird? You mustn't interrupt the training.”  
“I'm sorry, Sandor, but we're having a little dispute over here. Ser Jaime thinks his left arm is too weak for fighting, and I want to prove him that it can still be done – so I'd like to ask you to teach me – or rather us – how to fight.”  
The next moment, Sansa thought she was beset by owls, given the multiple staring looks she received. Back in the yard, there were some snickers from a few Gold Cloaks.  
That caused Sandor to spin around and to bellow: “Who the bloody fuck is laughing at my wife!?”  
At once, the sounds of levity died down.  
Sandor turned once more, cursed and swore and finally spat: “Sansa, Kingslayer – the shift ends at six. I expect you here in the yard.”  
Then, he returned to his men with stiff strides and started to hack at a new pitiable victim.  
Ser Jaime moaned: “Lady Sansa – what on earth have you done?”  
Sansa, however, looked at him defiantly and only repeated: “If I can do it, you can do it, too.”  
Ser Addam was seemingly having the fun of his life now; he clapped his golden-haired friend on the back and teased him: “Well, let's find out tonight how good Lady Jaime actually is.”  
The Kingslayer was indignant and shot back: “Seems to be a bloody new sport for women to pick up arms these days. First the Wench, and now her.”  
“The Wench?” Ser Addam and Sansa asked both simultaneously.  
Jaime Lannister only waved his hand dismissively and walked away.  
Yet, Sansa could still understand what he was mumbling under his breath: “Damn. Fighting and writing with the left hand – I'm going to die. If only this blasted letter to Tarth wasn't so imp...”  
Sansa didn't have a clue what this was about, but she was content that at least Ser Jaime seemed to have regained a bit of his old vitality. At the same time, she was taken aback of her own courage and was quickly becoming rather horrified as well: she'd learn how to fight!


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so here comes another update. It's a bit of a collection of bits and pieces, but still preparing some future developments. Hope it's ok.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The whole thing was bloody tedious and unnerving, to say the least. Of course, Sansa didn't have a clue of how to fight, and she wasn't very fit either. But just like in bed she seemed to develop an appetite for more with time, and it never ceased to mesmerise the Hound. It was incredible, but it was Sansa who ground her teeth and who endured the training while the Kingslayer often simply threw his sword into the dust in sheer frustration.  
At least, Sansa had a good eye. She was able to see the patterns in his movements, even if she couldn't copy all of them. Still, she had always had this tendency to parrot sentences and to mimick people; it came to her aid now and helped her to internalise the basics of fighting. It made Sandor immensely proud of his wife that she didn't back down, and it was bloody funny to see the Kingslayer struggle on, simply because his reawakening pride didn't allow him to lose against a delicate young woman.

Another month went by, and it was announced that Queen Margaery was with child. On hearing this, Sandor furrowed his brow, because he knew that Sansa wasn't pregnant.  
True enough, over the first weeks he had always pulled out at the last moment. The idea of becoming a father frightened him, if he was honest with himself. He knew he was a rough man and and an ugly old dog at that, and he simply couldn't imagine handling a baby. Children were afraid of him, and for good reason.  
Moreover, Sandor wanted to have some time of togetherness with his Little Bird first before he could think of starting a family. He still had to catch up with so many things in terms of love.  
And yet. A few times, he had lost control in the heat of their lovemaking and had spilled himself inside of his wife; so it would have been possible for Sansa to be with child as well.  
Nevertheless, her moon blood had come punctually, and Sandor knew that the Little Bird was musing about these things, too. He sighed and realised that at some point they'd have to address and to discuss the topic. But not yet.

As things stood, another remarkable event cast its shadow before: the Kingslayer's marriage. Since Jaime Lannister had always rejected all other women – Cersei aside, apparently – it surprised Sandor more than a little that arrangements had been made so swiftly, and that it had even been the man himself who had promoted the case.  
Nobody had thought much when Selwyn of Tarth had arrived at the capital; everyone had simply thought that the man wanted to pay his respects to King Joffrey and to show his loyalty.  
Ser Addam, who had been present, told Sandor the following day what actually happened during the welcome dinner, and that it had caused a correspondingly big wave: “You won't believe it! Selwyn was sitting next to Jaime all evening, and they were getting along brilliantly. Joffrey was in high spirits because of Margaery's pregnancy. And then, Jaime stood up and gave the Queen a toast. When Joffrey grinned triumphantly Jaime said he was starting to understand the positive sides of a wedded life, and that he wanted to ask the king for his approval to marry Lady Brienne of Tarth, if it pleased Lord Selwyn.”  
Sandor could only gape open-mouthed.  
“Bugger me sideways, he didn't say that, did he?”  
Ser Addam laughed loudly: “Ha! You should see your own face now! And what's even funnier: you look like all the others at court did, apart from the Evenstar. Never before have I seen Lord Tywin goggle like that. I can only guess that he had already been orchestrating something else for Jaime in silence. He must have assumed he'd have to force him into a marriage under threat of death. Haha, Jaime proved him different. I tell you – it was hilarious! Well, and Joffrey realised the Old Lion was in the process of being outsmarted, so he approved of the betrothal.”  
“What about Lady Brienne?” Sandor wanted to know.  
“A good match from a social and financial point of view. She's the heiress of Tarth. This is also the reason why Lord Tywin seemed to be more than half mollified at the end of the dinner.”  
“But?”  
Ser Addam shrugged.  
“There are rumours about her. Please don't be angry with me to put it like this, but she's said to be as tall and as attractive a sword fighter as you. Only in contrast to you people say that she's not loyal, and that she had a hand in the killing of Renly.”  
The Hound arched his good eyebrow and commented: “Looks as if kingslayers like to flock together. Any idea how Jaime came to choose her of all?”  
Lord Marbrand grinned: “You can count on that. I asked Jaime about this Lady Brienne in a quiet moment, and he told me that he travelled the Seven Kingdoms with her after he had been set free from his imprisonment. The really juicy detail about this new arrangement is that the woman in question is still somewhere in the wilderness of the Seven Kingdoms – if in Westeros at all – and doesn't even know about her good fortune. Anyway, this morning I heard that the Hand of the King has ordered Jaime to leave the capital and to return to Casterly Rock – and as soon as someone gets hold of Brienne of Tarth she's to be taken there as well for an impromptu wedding.”  
These news caused Sandor to whistle.  
“If the Lord of Lannister is so intent on securing the continuity of the family he could marry again and sire some children himself. But telling him that would be like pissing against the wind, I guess. Oh well. And if the Kingslayer continues to produce scandals at this rate we'll end up as bloody gossipy women, Lord Marbrand.”  
The red-headed knight laughed, and they returned to their immediate tasks.

On his way back home Sandor came across many people from outside King's Landing. At once, he became cautious and pricked up his ears. There were countless newcomers these days, and they were a truly disgusting lot: they were religious fanatics and supported the new High Septon, who was also called the “High Sparrow”. This religious leader seemed to be ascetic and unyielding. Sandor shook himself like a wet dog. Bah! He had already hated the pompous, overindulgent late septons, but this new man was even worse. Self-righteous men like him were able to send thousands of people to their early deaths for the religious concept of some useless gods who could all go bugger themselves with a hot poker in the first place. Why Joffrey allowed the septon's ragged and more and more numerous discipleship in town was a mystery to Sandor. The Hound had also found out that the widow Lyssa, their former neighbour, who had moved to another area, was one of these fanatics. He had seen her repeatedly at the Sept of Baelor during his tours across town. The mere knowledge caused him a taste of ash on his tongue.

When he arrived at his house he almost stepped into a puddle of excrements that had was befouling the way. The Hound growled and knew at once who was responsible for it; over the last weeks, the cobbler Jaspy had often emptied his chamber pot on the street, instead of using his privy.  
The man was another damned nuisance in his life. Sandor had already talked to him, for Sansa's sake, because he himself would have simply beaten his mug to a pulp; unfortunately, this man was a kind of calf-biting cur that would never let go of a leg voluntarily, metaphorically speaking.  
Now, however, the Hound had had enough of this insolence. With bared teeth and a loud snarl he stormed into the cobbler's shop, shoved his shocked assistant aside, took hold of the venomous man, who was yelling and cursing, and smashed him into the next wall.  
“The next time you pour your shit onto our threshold I'll make you lick up the mess, understood!?” Sandor boomed.  
“You're a monster!” Jaspy gurgled and spluttered.  
“Fine that you've understood that point!” the Hound snapped. “And don't forget it again!”  
Having made his stance clear, Sandor turned on his heels and left.  
Now that he had vented his anger he felt much better. And when he opened the front door and the Little Bird flew into his arms and gave him a hungry welcome kiss he forgot his frustration. He and Sansa didn't even make it to the dinner table and rather decided to feast on each other first...


	45. Chapter 45

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The political earthquake started one night with a simple – though wild – knock on Sansa's door; at least this was how she perceived it in retrospective. Sandor had left for one of his occasional vigils, and Tonyen had accompanied him, which meant that Elly and Sansa were alone.  
At first, Elly went downstairs and asked through the locked door who was there. A few moments later, the servant was at Sansa's side again.  
“My lady, there is a women in front of the door, and she's alone, by the look of it. She says her name is Shae. Supposed to be an old friend of yours, that's what she claims.”  
At once, Sansa dashed to the door. Naturally, she remembered Tyrion's lover, her former maidservant, well enough. Shortly after their marriage, Sandor had filed her in about the woman's dubious relationship with the Imp.  
“Shae, is that you?”  
“Yes! Please, please let me in!” the Lyseni in front of the door begged, and the voice and the accent were unmistakable.  
Swiftly, Sansa unlocked the door. Shae tumbled in, seemingly in a rather hysterical state and shaking like a leaf. Sansa had never seen Lord Tyrion's self-confident... whore in such disarray. Neither did she know what had become of her after the Lion's execution.  
“Please, please, my lady – can you hide me!? Please!”  
“Shae, what is it? What has happened?” Sansa inquired.  
No sooner had she ended her question when suddenly the noise of various cannonball shots from the Red Keep reverberated through the streets of the capital.  
Sansa was really puzzled and asked: “Are those salutes? What do they mean?”  
Shae giggled and wept at the same time, and finally, she managed to utter: “Lord Tywin is dead.”  
“WHAT!?”  
Sansa was alarmed – and now, Shae's words kept bubbling up: “They killed Tyrion, and I was his... his... lover, you know? I mean... you may have heard by now. Anyway, he – I mean Lord Lannister – found out about that point, too, and I knew I was in mortal danger, you see? So I head to do it.”  
A horrible kind of dread started to knot in Sansa's stomach.  
“You're not saying...”  
Shae cut in: “Perhaps they believe it was a natural death. The tears of Lys... they leave no traces.”  
Sansa could only breathe: “You mean you've poisoned...”  
“It was self-defence, really, it was.”  
Sansa started to panic: “Did anyone see you come here? Could anyone draw a conclusion I could be involved?”  
The whore shook her head wildly: “No, no, I've been discreet, I know how to be discreet, it's my job... though it was more good luck than planning that no-one saw me seize the unique opportunity. His food – I mean Lord Tywin's – had been left unobserved by this servant for a moment before it was taken up to the lord's chambers... Please, I've got money; Tyrion was always very generous – can you organise a passage on a ship? I want to leave Westeros. No, I shouldn't have come and shouldn't have dragged you into this, but nobody else would ever help me. You're my only hope.”

At that moment, all the septs from King's Landing started to ring their bells, and Sansa felt incredibly sick. Inevitably, her memories returned to that horrible day when she had seen her father been made to kneel in front of Baelor's. She started to tremble madly.  
By the Seven! She should turn Shae in for murdering the King's Hand, she knew, but that was impossible: Joffrey would only apprehend her as well and would order her beheading alongside with the other woman's one. Helping her was the only option. All Sansa could do was to pray that really no-one had noticed a thing.

Fortunately, Elly showed the necessary presence of mind in this situation: “The secret trapdoor, my lady! We can leave her in the cellar for a while. She'll be well-hidden there, and she can use the underground canal system to escape to the harbour.”  
Sansa nodded without hesitation and commented: “That's a reasonable idea, Elly, thanks. Shae, follow me, please. It's not so nice down in that hole, but you could have it worse. We'll have to wait now until Sandor comes back from his shift... and that will take some time because of the new developments, I'm sure. And you've really not been seen? You're absolutely sure?”  
Shae nodded avidly.  
“As sure as one can be of anything in the Red Keep.”  
Sansa sighed and pressed her palms to her temples.  
“Right. Come here now. We'll give you something like a cot and a blanket, so you can stay there. Let's go.”


	46. Chapter 46

When groggy Sandor finally came home late in the morning, no royal troops had banged their fists on their door yet to examine the house, and to search for the murderer of the late Hand. As Sansa had already predicted, her husband cursed blue murder, but he kept his voice at a low level, so as not to raise any suspicion in the neighbourhood – not with this shady Jaspy living next door.

“This thrice-damned hussy won't stay in our house! I'll yank her through the tunnel system by her hair, I swear! I'll deposit her on the next best ship, no matter which kind of hooker it is. And if anyone comes here to threaten you because of her folly I'll row after that ship with my bare hands, if necessary, and I'll cut her into tiny little shreds and feed them to the dogs!”  
Sansa didn't really try to pacify him, because she was angry with Shae to some extent as well – at the same time, she had seen the woman's despair, and while they had not been at court lately, Shae had experienced everything first hand and had been fearing for her life. Sansa remembered all too well what that felt like, and she thought back to the day in the past when she had nearly pushed Joffrey off the battlements.  
This situation wasn't so very different. There had been an opportunity – only this tine, it had been seized.  
The good question was only: how had Shae come by the poison in the first place?  
This aspect was cleared up readily: “I had already had it for a while before I... applied it. Tyrion gave it to me a while ago. He trusted me I wouldn't use the poison on him and wanted me to be able to defend myself. It'll be difficult to find a patron like him again, however ambivalent he may have been in some other respects.”  
Sandor only snorted, and Sansa patted his folded arms.  
“Right. No time for fooling around any more. Sansa, you go upstairs and wait for me, and I take her to the harbour. If everything goes well you can expect me back in about three hours. Oh, and something else: you and Elly and Tonyen – pack a few things. Just in case we might need a swift exit through the tunnel system as well.”  
Sansa nodded understandingly and said goodbye to Shae.

When the two had disappeared she and Elly and Sandor's squire busied themselves, just like they had been told. Tonyen was quiet, too, because he had been at the headquarters of the City Guard with Sandor before and had experienced the first crazy moment's there after the annunciation of Lord Tywin's demise.  
“Officially, nobody said anything about an unnatural death. They were suspecting a heart attack.”  
“Let's hope that this public opinion reflects what people think in private as well.”  
Elly weighed her wizened head and mused loudly: “Perhaps they're suspecting something, but they've got no proof. And hopefully, they're keeping their suspicions from the king.”  
Sansa made the sign of the Seven, and they went on packing their emergency bundles.  
“One decision has already been made,” Tonyen informed them. “Prince Tommen will be sent along with his dead grandfather to Casterly Rock.”  
“That's probably the best for everyone,” Sansa said simply, but her heart and her thoughts were elsewhere.  
She could only think of Sandor. Hopefully, he'd return safe and sound. Besides, she pondered their possible future flight and even thought of Stranger in the City Guard's stables. Her husband loved the horse and wouldn't want to part from it, if it could be avoided. Perhaps, they should hire a box in a stable in one of the streets nearby. She'd have to discuss this point with Sandor once they'd find the time to plan ahead.

Three hours later, Sansa started to get even more nervous than she already was. After another hour, she was pacing to and fro in sheer distress. The fact that she was so exhausted after the previous long, sleepless night did nothing to improve her state.

The bells of the city's septs announced the time as they usually did. Tonyen returned from a short excursion to Cobbler's Square and to the Black Boot Inn. He looked tired, too.  
“There's a lot of chatter about Lord Tywin's death, and you can hear many rumours, but there's none really pointing at the truth. Some people say it could have been the Tyrells. People are flocking together everywhere, and quite a few believe things will get even worse now, because the Old Lion – much as he was feared – won't be able to rein in the king any more, so he'll become even more of a tyrant than he already is.”  
Sansa nodded. Yes, this specific point was possibly true.

Another hour oozed by – and Sandor still hadn't arrived back home. What on earth was going on!? Mental images of severed heads bubbled up in Sansa's mind. She started to weep on her bed and Elly gathered her in her arms like a mother would her daughter, making soothing noises and rocking her softly. Since Sansa was so incredibly jaded that the elder woman's gentle hug started to have an effect after a few minutes: the sobs ebbed away, Sansa's head became heavier, her thoughts blurred... and finally, she dozed off.


	47. No chapter - just a drawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologise that I'm letting you wait for a new chapter. The whole story is planned in my head, only I've got too many writing projects at the moment and a real life as well. So at least I wanted to give you some visual impulse of how I envision Sandor's recent boss at the City Guard, which means I sat down and drew him as there's not much visual material about him on the net... Please be lenient with me...

 


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! :-)

Strong, muscled arms were going around her body and hugging her close when Sansa came finally awake with a start.

“Sandor!” she gasped. “Sandor! Are you all right? Gods, I was so worried!”

“And you had good reasons to be,” Sandor rasped and looked... well... dog tired.

At once, Sansa was fussing around him and chirped: “Are you hurt? What happened? Please do tell me!”

Sandor rubbed his bloodshot eyes and explained: “Without his grandfather as a corrective and with his mother gone Joffrey isn't becoming any wiser a monarch, let's put it like that. He's started to encourage the Faith, has even legalised the Faith Militant, if you get my meaning. The little shit on the throne thinks that they'll be on his side. If ever I've heard of a fart that'll backfire it's this one. Religious fanatics are arming themselves now everywhere in town, and they give a rat's arse about Joffrey. I wonder what Margaery was thinking – if she encouraged that madness, or if she didn't manage to manipulate him this time.

And things are only beginning to become rough here. There are still the average poor, starving folks who cry blue murder, people like those who started the Bread Riots.

Well, I was on my way back from the harbour where I had dumped this slut from the Red Keep on a ship successfully. And then, I accidentally ran into a street battle. Religious extremists were fighting against some rabble from Flea Bottom; no idea what the bloody cause was. And you can imagine that neither side liked my infamous face. While I can usually count on my physical presence to scare off average riffraff this time it was a completely different matter with those blasted religious extremists. They don't care, if they live or die.

So the whole mess got mighty precarious. You know I'm no coward, but I do know when it becomes necessary to retreat, so I made my way back. Luckily, I was able to hide in a little shed in a backyard, but the situation stayed dangerous for a while. The whole city is like a cauldron whose content is about to start to boil. On my way home I came across some of my men from the City Guard, and of course I had to help them to disperse the troublemakers. It's a relief that their good training from the recent past is paying off now.”

While listening to her husband's report Sansa had pressed her hands on her mouth. Her memories from the Bread Riots were coming back to her, and she could easily imagine the danger Sandor had been in.  
“Gods, this is so horrible! What a relief you weren't hurt!”

She kissed him wildly.

Sandor rumbled: “If I weren't so tired I'd take it as an invitation for a nice extended scramble between the sheets, wife. You're too bloody delicious.”

He yawned.

“As it is, I can only say that we must be prepared to flee King's Landing. I've got the strong feeling that things will turn from bad to worse soon.”

Sansa nodded eagerly and chimed in: “Elly, Tonyen and me, we've not been idle. And I must admit that I won't be sorry to turn my back on the capital. I'll only miss our house here.”

Sandor grinned and murmured into her ear, so that she could feel his warm breath on her skin: “You mean our passionate fucks here. Mmmh, you've become a naughty minx, Little Bird. Not that I'd complain.”

Sansa flushed scarlet and peeped: “You're a coarse, lewd man, Sandor Clegane.”

Her husband simply barked his laughter, yawned again and corrected her: “Husband, Little Bird, husband. And in this position I want you to embrace me with your arms and legs, so that I've got it nice and cosy and deliciously indecent while falling asleep. Can you do that for this rugged Dog of a man?”

Sansa blushed even more, but obliged... and couldn't help herself and had to respond when Sandor rubbed himself against her female place. He even managed to slip into her for three or four minutes, but he was simply too exhausted to really finish like he usually did. Still, he seemed to be perfectly content, and before dozing off he mumbled: “What a wonderful wife you are.”

“That's because you're a wonderful husband.”

Sandor fell finally asleep with a smile on his face.

Sansa was still aroused after their short lovemaking, so she defied her septa's teachings once more – even if she still had a guilty conscience about it at times – and touched herself. She had learned that a more conservative husband might have understood it as an indicator of his... sexual incapacity and might have felt insulted and condemned her for her wanton behaviour; but like so often Sandor was different. He was simply happy when she found her own relief, no matter whether it came from their actual union or from some side play. In Sansa's eyes his attitude only made him a better lover.

After a few more minutes, she shuddered and gasped.

 

Then, she cleaned herself, went down and informed Elly and Tonyen about what had transpired in the city.

Sandor's squire was very thoughtful and offered: “I'll keep an eye on the harbour from now on. It'll help to know which ship is lying at anchor at which jetty, and who the respective captain is.”

Sansa beamed and commented: “That's a great idea, Tonyen. I only ask you to use the tunnel route to the harbour. As we can see even the short distance above ground was already dangerous enough for Sandor today.”

 

After a while and a little more chitchat Sansa went back to her bedroom and snuggled up against Sandor, who was snoring lightly. When he felt her against his side he grabbed her in his sleep and hugged her close.

Sansa smiled and thought that with her husband's arms around her middle it felt as if she were perfectly safe and as if no evil in the world could ever harm her. When slumber took over after a few minutes she dreamed of making love with her husband under the weirwood tree in Winterfell; the ground was white, but it wasn't cold at all, not with Sandor around, and when she sat atop his frame he sprawled out his long arms, moved them up and down as if he had wings and japed: “Seven hells, Little Bird, I'll make the weirdest snow Maiden ever.”

Sansa came awake from her own laughing fit, and even if Winterfell was a bittersweet dream she thought herself a happy woman, in spite of everything that had happened. She also wondered whether the dream meant they'd really leave the capital any time soon – and whether they'd survive their possible escape...


	49. Chapter 49

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

When Sandor awoke he noticed even before he opened his eyes that there was no Little Bird at his side. So he sat up swiftly and looked around.

Soft morning light was filtering through the shutters – and his wife was standing right at the window. She was only wearing a thin chemise that was half translucent, and she was peeking out into the street from between the slats.

“Everything all right, Sansa?” he enquired.

Without turning around she replied thoughtfully: “It all looks so peaceful outside. I wonder, if it's the calm before the storm. Hopefully not.”

 

Sandor rose, walked over to his wife, embraced her from behind, bowed and started to nibble on the nape of her neck. It was a caress he had recently learned. Before he had known the Little Bird he had had no clue of tender touches, or of showing or reading signs of affection – at least when it came to humans.

 

Sansa leaned herself against him.

It caused the Hound to hum contentedly. Of course, he didn't fool himself: under normal circumstances the Little Bird would have never taken to him. They had simply been too different; in age and social status as well as with regard to temperament. Yet, they had come closer.

Sandor had always been a cold, gloomy and taciturn man. Around Sansa, however, he had somehow started to ramble on and on whenever he came close to her. It was weird. He had never cared much about words, had never learned the ways of a polished conversation.

His rough wording had scared Sansa off at first, but now, she used to listen to him readily. So he had started to open up to her, and over the last weeks there had been several moments when they had addressed the darkest moments of their past. Her father's execution. His sister's death. It had been painful for them both, but it had helped as well.

Sandor could feel the scars on his wife's back against his own ones and he knew that they had both scars on their souls as well. It was what brought them together. That – and the fact that they had survived so far.

 

The Hound took hold of Sansa's chin and tipped her head back to kiss her over her shoulder, and she kissed him back tenderly. Sandor would never tire of her lips, of that he was sure. Before he had known her he had never thought about love as something he might have need of, but he had come to realise that he craved love – and if anything he did even more so than many other people.

At the same time, the Little Bird was so willing, so eager to serve his needs... and more than that: she felt exactly the same. She had been a gentle soul to begin with and all the shit that had happened in her life had only served to intensify her hunger for love.

They were both still learning from each other: he when it came to tender touches and she in relation to passion.

 

“What does the Little Bird think of a different kind of calm before a different kind of storm?” he murmured into her ear and cupped her breasts.

Some months back in the past, she would have been scandalised and would have told him to get off, even if it would have been in ladylike words. But Sansa had changed as well. Given how they had started off, it was nothing short of a wonder, but she had gained confidence when it came to her own body... and to a good fuck.

She covered his hands with her own, far more delicate ones, grinned and answered: “I know of a secure haven for a seafarer like you.”

“Har, and guess who's willing to drop his anchor!?”

Sansa blushed, chuckled, and Sandor turned her around, positioned her on the little desk that they had organised for what little written correspondence they had, spread her legs and stepped between her thighs. The rest was utter bliss.

 

The Hound had never cared to take more time than necessary with any of the whores he had met, but his couplings with Sansa could never last long enough. That they got sometimes carried away by their lust was another aspect of the game. It was no different this time, and he finished all to soon; so he had to resort to different measures to satisfy his Little Bird. Judging by the sweet song she gifted him with shortly afterwards she had no cause for any complaints whatsoever.

Sandor grinned and called himself the luckiest bastard on earth once more, for he had done so repeatedly since his wedding.

 

While they were cleaning up the mess they had caused Sansa suddenly uttered in a sad tone: “It's strange. Queen Margaery hasn't been married for so long – and yet, she is pregnant already... whereas I'm not. Sandor – what if... what if I can't have any children?”

The Hound grunted: “There's still lots of time to find out. Take it easy. There may be good reasons for why you're not with child yet. As long as it means the pup and you will be all right, I can wait. Clegane babies are big, so it might be better for you, if it all doesn't happen too soon. Apart from that, it's more important for me to be with you. Before our marriage I never thought of having a wife, even less of a family. Seven hells, the very word “family” equalled “horror” in my brain. Anyway, if it should really turn out that we can't have any children of our own – I don't know what you think, but the damned War of the Five Kings has turned enough little tots into orphans, if you get my meaning.”

He was rambling on and on again, and he knew it, but Sansa only looked up at him with her big, Tully blue eyes, and the next moment, her arms were around his neck and her face burrowed against his collarbone.

“I love you, Sandor Clegane.”

Well, what better could he do than to return her wonderful declaration?

 

Around lunchtime, they made for the headquarters of the City Guard. Sandor had the late shift that day. Elly had been baking garlic bread in the kitchen when they had left the house, and Tonyen was at the harbour, as he had promised he would be.

The people in the streets were nervous, they noticed. Many shutters were closed, and some shops as well. At the same time, numerous ragged people with fanatic stares and makeshift pieces of armour or weaponry were prowling the streets and declaiming quotes from the Seven-Pointed Star.

Sandor wanted to bash in their stupid faces with that blasted scripture first, and to bugger them all with a hot poker next. He looked down at Sansa, who was – in spite of being religious – intimidated by the extremist fucks. Sandor swore inwardly.

He had not told the Little Bird that he had seen the Faith Militant lynch a whore from Flea Bottom during the street battle because of her “immoral ways” the other day. Bleeding hypocrites.

 

Luckily, they were not molested and arrived at the headquarters punctually. For once, Ser Addam was not in his solar and swinging his sword in the yard personally. He was sweating and yelling his commands, and the Gold Cloaks obeyed him readily.

Sansa and Sandor simply watched him for a while.

The Hound whispered into his wife's ear at one point: “Good for him to try to keep fit. He's so much better than late fat King Robert in that respect. But he looks as if someone has been getting on his wick today.”  
Sansa nodded.

Ser Addam was grinding his teeth as if he intended to crunch an iron bar with them.

Finally, he noticed his audience and came over, wiping his brow.

“Sandor! Sansa! What a relief to see you! Let's talk a little in private.”

When they were out of earshot of the Gold Cloaks in the yard Ser Addam picked up the thread of what he was saying again: “This day has been complete shit so far. The new High Septon – he has been dubbed “High Sparrow”, by the way – has informed the king that the Faith Militant would be able to take care of the city, and that our men aren't necessary at the moment. Guess what happened next. King Joffrey has agreed and has ordered us to stay in the headquarters. I can tell you, I could tear the forged swords out of the Iron Throne with my bare hands at the moment, so angry am I.”

Sandor glowered at his superior and growled: “Don't tell me that that is the bloody truth!”

The Little Bird was just as shocked.

“How can the king do that!?” she exclaimed.

“You're still asking that after what he did to your father?” Sandor commented.

Ser Addam stiffened and chided him: “Don't you think you should be less rude with your wife!?”

Sandor threw up his hands in the air: “I'm a ruffian of a Dog, just in case you had forgotten. Seven bleeding Hells, there's nothing that will ever change that. And now, I'm off to the armoury to get myself a breastplate. I think I've got to let off some steam in the training yard as well.”

While he was stomping away he heard Sansa say to Ser Addam: “That was his way of saying sorry.”

Sandor growled and knew he'd leave a few Gold Cloaks with cuts and sprained joints after the training session. At the same time, he realised that with the Faith Militant sidelining the City Guard the endgame for the Iron Throne had begun.


	50. Chapter 50

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

When her husband returned from from the armoury, clad in his normal chainmail and breastplate, Sansa was still standing where he had left her. His face was grim and he waved her over. She was still a bit hurt from his earlier comment, but she thought she could handle her feelings and approached him.

He breathed into her ear: “Little Bird, I hope that Tonyen has already found a ship for us. I've got the feeling that we'll have to leave pretty soon. At the moment, we could still be persecuted by the Crown, but once all seven hells break lose we'll flee. Today, I'll take Stranger with me after the shift and find him a private stable close to the harbour.”

Sansa understood him well and remembered that she had had the same thoughts about the courser.

“Ser Addam has returned to his office, as you can see. Perhaps... I should say farewell to him. He has been a friend, not just your superior.”

Sandor sighed and murmured: “I guess I shouldn't be surprised about this idea of yours. Well... he has saved you from Joffrey once... but you mustn't really tell him we're about to leave. The fewer people know about our plans, the better.”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Of course, she had to be practical now.

Sandor patted her cheek and rasped: “Ask him for a guard to see you home safely. We'll talk about the remaining details tonight.”

 

She gave him a kiss and watched him walk towards his men.

“Right, you sodding buggers, there's a lot of shit ahead for us, so we better be bloody well-prepared!” he hollered, and Sansa giggled into her hand on hearing his vulgar language once more.

Next, she turned around and headed for Ser Addam's office.

 

The copper-haired knight had cleaned his face in the meantime and had washed the sweat and the dust from the training yard away; he was sitting at his desk now and was in the process of signing a paper.

“Oh, I'm sorry, if I'm disturbing you!” she apologized, but the Commander of the City Guard shook his head energetically.

“No, Lady Sansa, please don't worry. In fact, you're just in time to receive this.”

Without offering an explanation he handed her the document. It bore the royal seal.

 

Sansa's eyes widened.

A pass!

She couldn't believe it. Although she was officially still the king's hostage Ser Addam was giving her a pass, so that she could leave the city! He was defying the king's orders! This was... high treason and could cost him his head. Oh by the Seven!

Ser Addam wasn't able to look at her, swallowed, cleared his throat and stated: “I feel Sandor and you will know how to use it wisely. Anyone who isn't an absolute oaf can see that coming events cast their shadows before. Most severe events.”

Sansa could only think: “He knows that this is a farewell!”

She felt a sudden rush of gratefulness for the man. It was a wonder that a Lannister affiliate could be like him...

So Sansa stepped closer, took the paper, folded it and secured it in her corset to have it close to her. Then she took Ser Addam's hand and squeezed it.

“I... we will never be able to thank you properly for this. We're owing you so much. I'll pray to the old gods and the new for your safety.”

The knight blushed and stuttered: “Ah, I'm not Baelor the Blessed. I've got my own reasons. And I don't want to and I've got no right... put perhaps... only once...”

He faltered.

 

Sansa understood and thought that she couldn't deny him his wish.

She stepped closer and gave him a chaste little kiss.

He swallowed again.

“Ser Addam, please promise me to try to stay alive,” she said softly.

He snorted and looked distressed.

“That has always been my policy in battle, and I won't change it, Lady Sansa. And should you or Sandor ever need my help in the future...”

Sansa smiled sadly.

“And we'd be glad to return the favour one day, Sandor and me. Farewell, Ser Addam.”

“Farewell, Lady Sansa.”

 

The next moment, the knight bellowed: “Dieran! I need you in my office!”

There was the clank of armour to be heard in the corridor. The door opened, and a young man from the City Guard with many pimples and goggle eyes under a shock of strawy hair entered and stood at attention.

“Commander?”

Outwardly, Ser Addam had regained his composure and was the perfect military leader again.

“Dieran, take Lady Sansa back to her house. Since the streets are not safe at the moment she should have a personal guard.”

The young man saluted, clicked his heels together and escorted Sansa out. She pressed her hand on her heart, where the pass was, and when she saw Sandor in the yard outside her heartbeat accelerated and swelled from pride about her imposing husband; she swore to herself that Ser Addam's immense favour wouldn't be wasted, and that they'd stay alive.

That they'd find a safe place.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been I while since I updated the last time. Sorry for that.  
> Today, you'll meet a stupidly heroic (don't tell him about the term "hero") and badass Sandor.

(50)

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *  
Sandor was convinced that this was his last shift for the City Guard. There was the unmistakable foul smell of an upcoming storm in the air. Hopefully, his timing for escaping would be right. He didn't want himself and his Little Bird to be persecuted and to get shortened by their heads. The spectacle about late Eddard Stark had been nasty enough.

 

Restlessly, he prowled the training pit like a caged wild animal. He only managed to relax a fraction when this little bugger Dieran arrived back from walking Sansa home. For the moment, the Little Bird was safe and she knew what to do and where to stay once all seven hells would break loose.

Good.

This way he'd be able to focus on his last tasks here. He had always been an effective man, and he intended not to change. Not even in the face of his impending... desertion. Yes, it was the word he had to use, he, the formerly loyal Hound.

Sandor shook his head. If only things had been a tiny little different it wouldn't have come down to all this. However, this wasn't the time for “if” or “when”.

 

It soon turned out just how correct Sandor's assessment of the situation was. A sweaty soldier from the Red Keep arrived on an almost panicky horse – and simultaneously, there were sudden distant shouts and roars and sounds of fighting from the streets to be noticed.

Ser Addam was in the process of arriving down in the yard as well and eyed the soldier curiously. 

“What's going on?” the knight and leader of the City Guard demanded to know.

The panting rider dismounted and gasped: “The Queen Margaery!”

“What about the queen?” Sandor growled.

“She was – gasp – visiting Baelor's Sept with Lord Varys – gasp – to pray for a healthy son – when suddenly, she was – gasp – apprehended and taken prisoner by the Faith. She's – gasp – she's charged with adultery and intemperance and high treason.”

Ser Addam paled and simply uttered: “Shit.”

The soldier nodded, slowly coming back to himself, and went on: “Lord Varys has disappeared.”

“The bloody bugger,” Sandor commented. “Why am I not surprised. And I'm pretty convinced that he's been pulling some strings in this matter behind the scenes.”

“No use making guesses now,” Ser Addam cut in.

“That's right,” the soldier agreed. “The townsfolk is rising now as well. And I fear they're not on the side of the king.”

“Fuck!” Sandor swore.

 

While Ser Addam was calling his men together in the yard, suddenly Tonyen appeared at Sandor's side.

“I've found a ship,” he whispered. “It'll leave in eight hours, with the flood.”

“Great!” Sandor rasped back under his breath. “Take Stranger with you and bring him on board. I've got one last thing to do.”

The squire looked at him with big eyes.

“But what, master?”

“Saving a lion or two, believe it or not.”

 

Ser Addam had started to talk to the City Guard and was giving them orders. They had to get to the Red Keep. If there were any attackers there, they should be wedged between the castle guards and the City Guard. If not, the soldiers would coordinate and pool their further strategies at the fortress.

After all, the queen was in the hands of the Faith, and the king's orders had to be heeded as well.

Sandor thought to himself: “The bloody golden coward will give up his rose and unborn heir, if only it means that his own life will be saved. Bah!”

 

Next, he had a hasty conversation with Ser Addam and told him what he intended to do.

His superior looked at him with serious eyes.

“Do it. And may the gods be with you, even if you don't believe in them.”

They clapped each other's shoulders, knowing exactly it meant “farewell”.

 

Determined and focused as he always was in battle Sandor stormed off, grabbed a saddled gelding and galloped off towards the Red Keep. Near the fortress he reached a makeshift barricade, manned by some rugged fundamental sparrows.

Sandor growled. So the rats were building nests. But they were still simple rats.

 

Suddenly, he heard a shrill, angry and decidedly female voice: “Get him! He belongs to the king! He's one of the king's butchers!”

Damn. Sandor remembered that voice. It belonged to their former neighbour, this nosy, widowed Lyssa. And there was her dark form on the other side of the barricade. She was pointing at him.

“So much as to brotherly or sisterly love and the bloody Seven-pointed Star,” he swore inwardly – and immediately sought his personal salvation in the only way he knew.

“Yes, I am a butcher. You may have heard of me: I'm Sandor Clegane. The Hound. The one missing half a face and all human mercy. And I'm missing a soul as well. No need to try to redeem me.”

His vicious barks intimidated the rabble on the other side of the barricade.

Except for one person.

Lyssa screeched: “He's a monster! He must be sent to the seven hells at once!”

Now, Sandor was getting really angry.

He needed to reach the Red Keep – and this stupid woman was in his way and thought herself to be safe.

With one smooth motion, the Hound let a previously hidden little knife glide into his big paw – luckily, he had not padded his gauntlets with any gloves and could get a proper hold on it – and threw the weapon with all his might.

Lyssa's eyes widened an instant later. She gurgled and grabbed the knife that was now protruding from her neck. Then, she toppled over and lay motionless.

 

This quick death triggered off two effects: half of the people behind the barricade spattered into different directions in panic, nearly pissing themselves in the process. At least they had the brains to retreat against an overwhelming foe.

The other half belonged to the stupid, fanatic sort: they attacked Sandor with their muckrakes, thinking the longer weapons would bring them safety. The idea that dung forks could be chopped to pieces, because they were mainly made of wood only made it to their brains when it was too late. They were eight, but they weren't wearing any chain mail or any other kind of protection.

Sandor unleashed his booming, demonic laughter while hacking at the attackers.

That and the first body cleaved in two brought the onslaught to a sudden halt.

Sandor raised his bloodied sword again and severed a head from its body.

 

Suddenly, even the most aggressive scoundrels turned tail and ran... though they didn't get far, because the Hound managed to cross the makeshift barricade with his horse and mowed down whoever was still in reach. Just to be sure nobody from this group would oppose him again.

 

Finally, Sandor came to a halt in a backyard in the direct vicinity of the Red Keep.

Over the past weeks he had been very active: since his own house was linked to the underground tunnel system he had examined the dark corridors whenever he hadn't been on duty. Or in bed with Sansa.  
Ah, well, there was no time for romantic thoughts now.

Sandor dismounted and smacked the gelding on its behind to send the horse back, so it couldn't give away the Hound's position; next, he opened a half-hidden grating that lead to the dark, twisted world beneath the Red Keep, clambered down some steps and pulled the grating into place again. The last thing he heard from above the ground for quite a while was the alarm of the city septs' tolling bells.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence.

It took him quite a while to reach his destination, longer than he liked. The problem was that he only had a candle with him, not a torch or a proper lantern. It had been difficult enough to light the little flame, and there was barely enough light for him to find his way – but he had not been able to bring along some proper equipment. Thus, he had to be careful not to pick the wrong direction whenever he came to a fork.

 

Finally, however, he had reached his goal and left the tunnel system through a hidden door in the basement of a special part of the Red Keep. It was near the tower of the Hand and close to the royal suite. Many members of the Lannister family, or other people close to the royal family resided here.

Sandor had hastened up a flight of steps, down a corridor and further up another staircase.

The wing was deserted. There were no revolutionists, but neither were there any servants like usual.

A few more long strides, and he arrived at the room he had been aiming for. He wrenched the door open and stormed into the chamber.

There was a high-pitched shriek, followed by some spitting animal sounds. At once, Sandor understood that his search was successful.

Tommen was cowering under his bed with his kittens, his fair hair like a golden halo around his pudgy face. His eyes were unnaturally wide. When the boy recognised him, he left his hiding place at once.

“Sandor! It's you! Please, please, take me away from here!”

“That's why I'm here, Prince Tommen,” the Hound growled.

 

He looked out of the window to get an impression of the situation outside. It was worse than he had thought. There were heavy fights down in the yard.

And then, he saw something that was likely responsible for the prince's traumatized appearance: obviously, the corpse of Lord Tywin, that had been supposed to be transferred to Casterly Rock presently had been dragged out of the sept and had been torn to pieces. When Sandor spotted the Old Lion's head held up on a spear even battle-hardened Sandor felt a slight whiff of queasiness. Worse than that, it was no other than this blasted cobbler Jaspy, who was proudly presenting his trophy. That fucking troublemaker!

The Hound had not loved the Lord of Lannister, but he had been in his services for so long...

 

There was also a loose arm to be seen... but wait! The hand didn't look as if it belonged to an elderly man...

And then, Sandor spotted the second head and the Hound's eyes widened in understanding.

He forced to get a grip on himself, turned around and stated as calmly as possible: “Your Grace, it's time to leave at once.”

 

Well, come to think of it – Tommen would likely never be a king for real, not with that mob outside. Those people... it was a revolution. No, Tommen could at best retreat to Casterly Rock, and Sandor had to help him. The little cub was nothing like his late mother. Or brother.

 

“I need a bag. A bag for my kittens. I can't leave Ser Pounce and the others,” the boy was murmuring, and his voice sounded dead from shock.

Shit.

The Hound knelt in front of Tommen and said: “You must leave the cats. Cats have got nine lives, and these ones are still so young that they still have got all nine of them. They will survive, but you MUST leave them. The bad people aren't interested in the kittens, but they want to kill you. The bad people might want to kill the kittens as well, if they saw you with them. So you must leave them now.”

“Nonononono, I must have a bag for my kittens.”

Tommen was in such a state of shock that he was incapable of listening to any logical arguments. Damn.

No time to potter away their time.

Not seeing any other chance, Sandor simply pressed his hand on the boy's mouth, grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. Tommen became frantic.

“Make one sound, and I'll gag and bind you!” Sandor rasped into his ear.

That caused the child to give up and to just tremble violently.

 

A moment later, another door in he corridor opened.

Ser Kevan appeared, looking in a state of internal upheaval as well.

Anyway. Fantastic! That was exactly the second person Sandor had been looking for.

“Ser Kevan! To me! In a few minutes, this wing will be full of madmen. They have already killed Joffrey. I'm here to save your other grand-nephew. I know of a secret tunnel.”

“Good man, Clegane! Never in my life have I been so relieved to see your scarred face. But I can't accompany you. I've got to help defend the Red Keep. And I don't know where my son Lancel is. I can't leave him alone.”

 

Sandor reacted quickly. He couldn't take Tommen to Casterly Rock. That was impossible.

So he rasped: “Guess who's dead as well, Ser Kevan? No, the Red Keep is lost. But you've still got this grand-nephew, two living children and your wife. Return to the Westerlands and help Ser Jaime with your ancestral seat. Your brother would have said the same.”

It was cruel to pretend that Lancel Lannister was dead though the Hound didn't know for sure – but it was likely he was right.

 

The colour drained from Ser Kevan's face.

“No! No!”

“Seven bloody hells, no time for mourning now! Do that later and properly. And stay alive, most of all!”

That caused the elderly man to react, and he followed Sandor and Tommen.

 

At the staircase to the basement, they came across the first two opponents.

Ser Kevan grabbed Tommen and tore the boy further down, and the Hound hacked through the attackers with a few swift, effective strikes, moving like a grey-black bolt of lightening people didn't expect from him, given his size.

Next, Sandor sprinted down the stairs and took the lead again. Of course, he was partly covered in gore by now, but he didn't care. On his way downwards, he grabbed hold of a burning torch to have more light in the darkness this time.

Tommen was so shocked by now that he simply followed and obeyed; he was in some kind of trance. Well, that was possibly the best.

 

While they were jogging through the stinking canal system they put quite a few angrily squeaking rats to flight. Animal rats this time. At the moment, that was better than the human sort.

At some point, the torch was close to dying, and the Hound got out his candle again.

After that, they had to move more slowly, but the pudgy boy was panting heavily, so the curbed speed was probably just right for him at the moment. If the child fainted and Sandor had to carry Tommen on these clammy, slippery stones they wouldn't be quicker anyway.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached a tunnel Sandor knew much better than the previous ones. He stopped.

“What is it, Clegane?” Ser Kevan asked huskily.

The portly man was puffing as well.

“Don't worry,” Sandor rasped back. “We're just picking up the rest of the travelling party.”


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happened to the little kittens that were left behind by Tommen and Sandor in the last chapter, just in case you haven't already noticed: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1577135. ;-)

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They – Elly and Sansa – had been waiting in this dark hole for ages. True, they did have a lantern Sandor had already prepared for them on a previous stroll through the canal system, but the little flame barely managed to illuminate this stony, vaulted chamber.

It was some kind of underground storage room close to the opening near the harbour. They had all their important belongings with them, and Tonyen had put more things into Stranger's saddlebags.

The lad had had to take the streets to the port, because the horse couldn't descend into the canal system, of course. Sansa could only hope that the squire had been able to get the evil-spirited courser aboard the ship Tonyen had chosen for them without any problems.

 

The youngster had appeared at their house earlier and had instructed the two women that in case he didn't make it to the ship they should wait for Sandor and that they were supposed to take the ship named “Titan's Glory”. As the name already indicated it was a Braavosi cogg. The Captain's name was allegedly Diraio Mandral, a man of good reputation amongst the sailors.

 

Sansa had repeated all these details to herself again and again. Still, she was getting more nervous by the minute.

Where on earth was Sandor? Had something happened to him? Would he make it to the ship in time?

He had given Tonyen clear orders and had told him that Sansa should leave the capital under all circumstances... but how could she possibly turn her back on King's Landing as long as Sandor wasn't with her?

 

All the stress caused Sansa to weep in the clammy semi-darkness of the room.

At once, Elly, who was really turning into a surrogate mother these days, embraced her and whispered some soothing words into her ears: “Your husband will be here in time, you'll see!”

Yet, time was passing, and when they had only about two hours left until the ship would set sail Sansa was shaking like a leaf and praying to the old gods and the new with utmost intensity.

 

Suddenly, the two women heard some steps from the underground canal – and from more than one pair of feet.

At once, Sansa covered the lantern – just in case. Who was going there? A patrol of some sort? A fraction from the religious extremists?

 

There was a male voice asking a question, and somehow Sansa thought she just might have heard it before, but she couldn't correlate it with a person.

The answer to the question, however, even if she couldn't discern the actual words, caused her heart to hobble like mad: that was her husband's dark, raspy voice, and he didn't sound as if he was in some kind of imminent danger. Gods, never had he sounded lovelier to her!

At once, Sansa unveiled the lantern and opened the heavy door that led to the storage room.

 

“Sandor!” she whispered urgently and threw herself at the imposing shape in the corridor.

“Little Bird!” her husband replied, and he sounded relieved as well.

“Is that your wife?” the other male voice asked.

“Yes, indeed, Ser Kevan. She and her maid will be coming with us – and my squire is already waiting aboard the ship.”

 

Sansa flinched.

Of course! Now she knew where she had heard this man before. This was Ser Kevan Lannister!

And there was another person with them; a smaller one. But... but that was...!

Sansa thought she didn't believe her eyes.

“Clegane, you seem to have been very well-prepared to flee with your Stark wife,” Ser Kevan commented in a sharp tone, and Sansa flinched again.

“Of course we were – given what our late king has been doing it was necessary to make certain that my wife would be given a chance to survive this bedlam.”

 

Late king? LATE king? Was Joffrey...? Was this why...?

Sansa was trembling, but she managed to emphasize: “There's no time! We have to get to the ship now, and from what I can see you're about to accompany us, Ser Kevan. So we better make haste.”

“You're damned right, love. No time for dawdling. Let's go. Elly? – There you are, woman. Right. Off to the harbour now!”

Sansa grabbed her few belongings from inside the storage room and Sandor helped her. She noticed that he had blood on his armour, but he looked unhurt. Well, he'd have to tell her about what had happened later.

 

With swift steps the little party hurried towards the exit of the tunnel system. And then they were breaking free into the evening. The shadows were already deepening, but there was still enough light for them to find their way safely.

 

Sansa pricked up her ears. The bells in the capital were tolling, and in other parts of the city there seemed to be quite a hubbub, which explained Sandor's signs of an earlier skirmish. Down at the port people were very busy, too, but there seemed to be no fighting going on at the docks: the mariners of the different ships were obviously just very busy to prepare for their individual departures. With a rebellion in their backs, no foreigner wanted to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. It was all too understandable.

 

After a moment, they had found the “Titan's Glory”, and a fine ship it was indeed. Neverthelsse, Sansa's eyes widened in shock for another reason: she had thought that they'd have a little more time left, but in fact, the sailors were making their last preparations before taking their leave.

And there was Tonyen, waving at them wildly from the gangway.

“Over here, and fast! They'll be lifting the anchor in about fifteen minutes!”

It promptly caused their little group to speed up even more.

 

Captain Diraio Mandral turned out to be a stout, sunburned, bald man – and he wasn't exactly overjoyed to find out that two more passengers had turned up. Ser Kevan became suddenly very embarrassed, because due to his sudden flight he only had his normal pouch with money on his belt. It was still more coin than the beggars from Flea Bottom would see within a year, but it wasn't enough for a passage for both him and Tommen.

Luckily, Sandor and Sansa had enough money with them as they had been prepared for the voyage, and Sandor paid the fee for the golden-haired boy, who had not spoken ever since Sansa had laid her eyes on him in the canal system. Tommen positively looked like someone who had seen too many bad things.

Much as she despised the name “Lannister” Sansa knew that the little prince had a kind soul and that the child had not wronged either her or her family; so she approached the boy and embraced him. Her gentleness broke the damn, and Tommen started to sob and to wail.

Meanwhile, Sansa heard Ser Kevan mention something to Sandor about the Lannisters paying their debts. She hoped that the Lion reimbursement wouldn't be tainted with a bitter aroma. With the Lannisters you never knew; she had learned that lesson simply too well.

 

“Everyone to his station! Lift the anchor!”

Captain Mandral's bellowed orders caused a hot wave to run up and down Sansa's spine.

God's! She was leaving King's Landing! Finally! Her greatest dream was coming true!

And yet, she couldn't relax. She was still fearing that something would turn foul. That there would be a royal ship in Blackwater Bay, and that it would force them to stop. Could they still be arrested?

 

Only when Westeros had disappeared well behind the horizon did it finally dawn on Sansa: she was free!

A moment later, it was her who was getting a crying fit – and she was hanging around Sandor's neck, pressing her body flush against his in sheer need of support. Her tears streamed into the ends of her husband's dark, lank hair and down the skin of his neck. Calloused fingers started to comb through her tresses and a raspy voice, thick with emotions, declared above her: “Now, the Little Bird can expand her wings.”


	54. Chapter 54

Luckily, the voyage was boring: there were no real storms, just a strong breeze at times, and luckily the Little Bird didn't suffer from seasickness. Neither did Sandor. With regard to Elly and Tonyen, however, things stood differently, and the saccred warrior had to hold his squire several times while the cheesy-looking boy was feeding the fish.

What counted was that they reached Braavos safely.

 

On their way, they dumped Kevan and Tommen in another Westerosi port where the crew was getting fresh provisions and water. The boy and his uncle would still have to travel a long way to Casterly Rock, and it wouldn't be a nice voyage, but they were far away enough from the capital and its mob law now, if nothing else; besides, they could also send a raven to the west, so that a security unit could meet them midway.

When the Lannister survivors left the ship a still pale Kevan thanked Sandor for his help. Aboard the ship Lord Tywin's younger brother had found the time to bemoan his dead son Lancel and was still very upset, but he had also regained enough determination to want to save his grandnephew. For days, Tommen had clung to Sansa as if she were a life boat, probably because the child remembered her as a friendly soul from the Red Keep. Sandor was a bit embarrassed when the boy declared that he rather wanted to come with them to Braavos than to pick his way back to the Kingslayer.

“Someone has to catch up with being a father at the Rock,” Sandor murmured into his wife's ear when the ship finally set sail again.

Sansa simply leaned her face against his chest, her open, red hair fluttering around her and enveloping him. Together, they watched the receding coastline in silence.

 

When they finally arrived in Braavos with the early morning tide, they were very excited and eager to start their new life.

Sandor instructed Tonyen: “Don't wear a sword openly like this, see? Otherwise, you'll attract each and every stupid bugger of a bravo in the city sooner or later.”

His squire nodded avidly.

 

The Titan of Braavos welcomed them with a loud signal, but rather little could be seen of that famous colossus on that day – it was so foggy that Stranger could barely discern his hooves when he was led down the gangway. The stallion reacted with so much anger that Sandor had a lot on his plate to soothe the courser enough so that the animal wouldn't balk or hurt them.

Finally, Sansa thanked Captain Mandral for the safe passage, and they unloaded their goods piece by piece with Elly's help.

 

Meanwhile, Tonyen had darted off to find them a room in an inn with a stable.

After the better part of an hour, the lad came back and announced: “Ha! Now this is very fitting. There's an inn close by, and it's called “The Chippy Blade”. The captain has recommended it as well. Looks as if many people from Westeros take their lodgings there. It's just down this canal and across a bridge.”

 

“Bloody fog,” Sandor commented. “There's a canal in that direction? Well, you must be right, I can hear the lapping of some water there. Good boy, to find us some rooms so soon.”

 

Luckily, Sandor managed to hire a porter for their belongings, a middle-aged, bald man, who had already been lurking at the harbour for the prospect of work. Carefully, the little party felt their way down the narrow pavement next to the canal and crossed the bridge that had already been mentioned by Tommen. A moment later, they arrived at “The Chippy Blade”.

 

“This city is no place for horses,” Sandor felt. “Our future home needs to be on the outskirts of the town, close to the hinterland, so that I can find Stranger a meadow and that I can ride him regularly. He needs that.”

 

The inn proved to be acceptable with regard to the cost-benefit ratio... and given that they were foreigners. The two rooms and the horse box were not really cheap, but Sandor guessed that they'd have been clipped much more in another establishment.

Their chambers were clean, and they were served a rich, hot, hearty breakfast at once, which did a lot to mollify him even more.

 

Afterwards, they all bathed... and Sandor and his Little Bird retreated for a passionate first tumble in Braavos. He was neither patient nor refined now, but Sandor was showing his widest houndish grin when he started to thrust into his very wet and welcoming wife.

“What is it love? Aah!” Sansa wanted to know while thoroughly enjoying to feel him moving in and out of her. She wrapped her long legs around him to give him even better access. Seven hells, what a wonderfully ardent lover Sansa had become – and even more so since she had left the cage that King's Landing had been for her.

“Mmmhhh – this is so much better than that bloody tiny bunk bed on the ship,” Sandor explained, and they both chuckled and moaned in utter delight. 

 

With regard to their next steps, it proved good that they had arrived so early in the morning. They asked the publican about a trustworthy broker for houses, and when the four of them entered the canal system again the town was only just awakening. Fortunately, the fog was slowly lifting, so they didn't risk to fall into the water with each step.

 

They made for the docks again where they had been told to find the broker's agency. Sansa was just telling him under her breath that the canals had a very peculiar smell... when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, and they all ran into each other.

“What is it, Little Bird?” Sandor demanded to know at once.

Sansa was just gaping, her mouth open and her eyes unnaturally wide. It looked as if she had turned into a pillar of salt, only her fast breathing gave away that she was still alive. Sandor was getting really worried now, especially since he couldn't make out any danger.

There was just a street vendor in the still foggy distance, who was chanting her mussels, cockles and clams.

 

“It's her voice,” Sansa breathed.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mussels, cockles and clams!” the street vendor announced again – and now, Sandor got the very strange feeling that he had heard that voice before... yet, he didn't find the time to ponder over the person who belonged to it: like a bat out of the seven hells Sansa darted off. Sandor had never seen her run so fast. A moment later, she was swallowed by the fog.

 

The Hound was so shocked that he didn't know what to say.

“Err, what's wrong with our lady?” Tonyen asked from behind, and Elly commented: “She looked as if she had seen a ghost.”

 

Two seconds later, it became clear that Elly wasn't completely wrong with her assessment – only it was a good ghost from her past that Sansa had heard: the canals of Braavos started to resound with the overjoyed, laughing echoes of two sisters who had believed each other lost forever, and who were now being reunited.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the last chapter of this story!

Sandor couldn't believe they had found Arya Stark. Well, the disbelief was mutual: when the little wolf bitch, who was looking rather ragged and thin, set eyes on him she tried to attack him with teeth and claws...  
… until Sansa called in shock: “NO! Arya, no! Sandor is my husband.”

Her sister nearly had an accident then, because she was so gobsmacked by the news that she nearly tripped over her feet and fell into the canal.

 

Together, they decided to enter an inn, because it wouldn't do to exchange their individual experiences in public. Moreover, Tonyen and Elly had to be introduced to the Little Bird's sister as well. Apart from that, Arya kept an eye on the goods in her cart, no matter whether she was overjoyed to see Sansa again or not.

Luckily, Arya knew a soup kitchen with a patio and some rough wooden tables and benches in front of the building. In this way, they could sit down for a private talk while keeping the unsold cockles and mussels nearby. Sandor paid them all a drink and a little snack – and a good, hearty breakfast for his tomboy goodsister, who wolfed her food down as if she hadn't eaten properly for ages.

 

In between smacking her lips and munching on her bites she told them her story: of how she had made Jaqen H'gar's acquaintance, of how he had given her a Braavosi coin, of how she had made her way to the coast and of how she had come here. The news of her being an acolyte of the Faceless Men were disgusting, to say the least. Still, Sandor didn't want to judge her: she had seen and heard and done so many bad things out of sheer necessity in the course of the war, and she hadn't become a whore.

 

“You won't have to go on with your training now, little wolf bitch. No need for you to become a multiple killer like me. We've got enough money to care for you,” he offered.

“And who are you, Hound, to think you should offer me this in such a patronizing way?” Arya spat.

So Sandor growled: “I'm your goodbrother, in case you have forgotten, and since there are no other adult family members around it's my bloody duty to take care of you. Oh, and by the way – the Faceless Men are called like that, amongst other things, because the assassins have no family ties. So if you don't want to break up with Sansa you're not the right one for them any more.”

Arya pouted and gazed at him with hatred in her eyes.

Then, her head snapped around, and she faced Sansa.

“How come you're bound to such a bastard, sister? He's not exactly the type of man you'd have favoured in the past.”

 

Sansa blushed, even more so, because it all happened in front of Elly and Tonyen. With a catch in her voice, she started to recount the beginning of their relationship.

Unfortunately, Arya showed little compassion: “What!? You let him touch you? This horrible man of all? And then, you even married him? How could you do that?”

Sansa became a bit angry then – things were obviously becoming as strained again as it had ever been between the two: “I did what I had to do to survive, just like you did what was necessary for you – so why do you condemn me? And besides, Sandor has proven that he's more than the killing ruffian you take him for. He's been kind to me, and we have both come to love each other, little as you may understand it.”

Arya looked to the side and mumbled: “I think I'm going to puke.”

 

In the end, however, Sansa's little sister gave in and accepted him grudgingly – and Sandor's offer to live with them as well. So he was happy for his Little Bird, even if he didn't particularly like the little hellion that would be a member of their household now.

 

Then came the next step. It wasn't quite so easy to end Arya's apprenticeship for the Faceless Men, but Sandor wasn't surprised. Greedy buggers. They were averse to letting her go, no matter what they had said or not said in the House of the Many-Faced God. Luckily, the girl hadn't learned too many of the assassins' secrets yet. Sandor brought forth to the Kindly Man what arguments he had... and he donated quite a sum to the organization. Only then was Arya given her liberty back.

 

They also found a house on the outskirts of Braavos, and further on the mainland a rented box and a meadow for Stranger. The black horse nearly exploded with excitement when he was finally allowed to gallop on a stretch of green again – and since there were also some mares present, he eyed them at once and pranced into their midst like a king.

“Look at that ladykiller!” Tonyen laughed at Sandor, and the Hound grinned back at his squire until his mouth twitched.

 

Luckily, Sandor also found work as a security guard very soon. A man like him was even more impressive amongst the often slender, lithe Braavosi, so it was easy to get a safe post at a rich merchant's house.

For Arya, it was impossible to stay at home; she had been wild to begin with, and in the meantime, she had become too independent to be confined to a house. In the end, she started to work at a big smithy that maintained a shop for weapons, and she started to transport the goods from the smithy to the shop, to polish them and to arrange them in the windows – and once she had gained enough knowledge she was also allowed to advise customers and to sell the weapons.

What was even more interesting was that the little wolf bitch and Tonyen got along very well. After four to five moons in Braavos the two were entertaining a little romance, and Sansa and Sandor often winked at each other behind the backs of the two lovebirds.

 

After a while, news from Westeros reached them, too. The Seven Kingdoms had fallen apart, and after having killed Joffrey King's Landing had declared itself an independent theocratic republic.

When Sansa heard it she looked at Sandor and said softly: “Under the king the people were like puppets. Them – and us as well. But we have managed to cut our strings.”

Sandor snorted: “Ah, Little Bird, but the puppets in King's Landing don't know what to do now. They've never learned to rule themselves, that's a big difference. I wouldn't be surprised if they fucked up what freedom they think they've gained.”

 

Like so often, Sandor was proven right. At the end of winter, the majority of the people in King's Landing had perished from famine and fever.

When the Dragon Queen, Daenaerys, arrived, the city fell into her clutches like a ripe apple, and from thence, the Targaryen leader started to reconquer Westeros – and to drive back the countless wights that had started to roam the Seven Kingdoms during the cold season.

 

By then, Sansa had given birth to a healthy son with red hair and grey eyes whom they had named Addam, in honour of Ser Addam Marbrand, who had helped them so often during their time in the capital, and who had reportedly sacrificed his life the day Joffrey had been killed.

 

One day in spring, they were all enjoying a day off duty. Sandor had ridden Stranger early in the morning, and now, they were hanging around lazily at a big market near the docks. Sansa was just eating a fish roll with jam, and Sandor started to grin: judging by her weird appetite his little bird was pregnant again. How wonderful!

 

Suddenly, there was a commotion down at the piers: a ship was arriving from Westeros!

Getting curious, Sandor gestured at his wife and rasped: “I'm off to the gangway. Let's see what news the ship brings from our old home.”

Sansa simply nodded, kept on nibbling at her food and held Addam's hand. The little boy was just making his first upright steps in public, and Sandor's heart swelled with fatherly pride.

 

He was lighthearted when he made his way down to the ship – but then, he stopped dead in his tracks, and his eyes widened in confused recognition.

“Kingslayer!” he boomed at the handsome, fair-haired man who was just getting off board.

And behind him was... Tommen! Oh, how the boy had grown; he had also lost some weight and was slowly becoming as good-looking as his father.

“Oy! What's that!? My mind must be playing tricks on me, if the first person I'm discovering in Braavos is the scarred, ugly Hound! What are you doing here? Waiting for a Lannister liege lord?”

“Still as “charming” as ever, Kingslyer. But let me tell you: I'm my own dog now.”

Jaime laughed: “What a pity. But perhaps you can help us to find our way around in Braavos. Now that Queen Daenaerys is on the Iron Throne it became clear that I had to go into exile, if I didn't want to lose my head. As the man who killed King Aerys I know I don't have a future in Westeros, but Uncle Kevan will surely make a fine lord; so I boarded a ship and here I am – together with Tommen, my wife Brienne and my two little girls.”

“You're a productive Lion, if I may say so, but I'm a father now as well.”

 

At that point, Tommen spoke up in a serious voice, but with sparkling eyes: “You and Sansa have got a child? Congratulations! Where is she?”

Sandor chuckled: “Down there, at the market. And be careful: if you come across a wild, skinny, dangerous girl – that's her sister. Perhaps you remember her.”

 

Jaime Lannister looked surprised and exclaimed: “What!? Arya Stark!? Why, the wolves of Winterfell are harder to kill than I thought.”

Sandor cocked his head and inquired: “What do you mean, Kingslayer?”

Jaime smirked and was obviously enjoying it mightily to inform him of the next details: “You won't believe it, Hound, but Jon Snow and Bran Stark are still more or less alive.”

Sandor's eyes bulged, but he only asked: “What do you mean – more or less?”

“Well, these were the last things that I heard before we set sail for the free cities: Bran Stark has turned into a hybrid between a human and a tree, and he's a powerful wizard now. He has been discovered beyond where the Wall used to be. It came down during the winter, you see.”

“The Wall doesn't exist any more!? I didn't hear a word of that.”

“But it's true. And Jon Snow – he was stabbed to death, but revived by some kind of magic. Queen Daenaerys has made him the new Lord of Winterfell... and has married him to reunite the kingdoms.”

 

Sandor ran his hand through his hair.

“Phew, now that's something.”

“But not all. Rickon Stark has survived as well and was found in White Harbour. He's now with Jon in Winterfell.”

By then, Sandor could barely believe his ears any more.

He only uttered: “I need to tell my wife, Kingslayer! Go to “The Chippy Blade”. It's a good place for newcomers. I'll meet you there.”

“All right, Hound, see you later then. – Wench, where are you with little Genna and Joanna? Don't you think they've puked enough aboard the ship?”

 

A female voice answered something, but Sandor wasn't listening any more. His long legs were already carrying him back to his wife. In his mind, he was already planning ahead: they had to see how the land lay, if they would be tolerated by Queen Daenaerys and by Jon Snow – if Arya and his Little Bird could fly home.

Well, the minimum would surely be an overseas correspondence, and that would already be more than anyone would have ever believed possible. It couldn't be all done in a day's time, but perhaps after his wife would have given birth to the second spark of new life within her...

Seven hells, what a wonderful day this was turning into!

 

“Sansa! Sansa!” he exclaimed, nearly bursting with joy, excitement and fierce love for his family; and he also waved for his goodsister to join them.

“What is it, love?” Sansa asked him.

Sandor raised her chin with his hand, kissed her – fish-and-jam-flavour notwithstanding – and announced: “You won't believe me what I've just heard. Let me tell you...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for your support and your comments and concrit and kudos; they were all very helpful and motivating, especially when the story started to become longer and longer, more so than I had intended it to be! 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I ever seek to do so. All credit for characters,plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.


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